Virgin Widow (24 page)

‘Keep safe.’ It was all I could find to say.

‘Until we meet again in England.’

Isabel, defiant to the last, did not touch on the fact that we might be on opposite sides. That we might be enemies. And yet in my heart I wished I were going with her. Returning to England would be like sailing for a safe harbour compared with negotiating the dangerous shoals and rocks of Margaret’s Court.

‘Do you believe her?’ I asked the Countess. ‘Can we trust her to plead our cause in Clarence’s ear?’

‘No.’ The Countess’s face was stark with dread as the ship’s crew began to set sail to manoeuvre from the harbour. ‘I fear for the Earl.’

We watched until the ship dwindled into the distance and the cold wind drove us indoors, until Isabel had sailed for England and for whose camp we knew not. She had taken back Edward’s letter, carrying it with her. But, in the heightened tension of the exchange, not the one written by Richard. It had slipped her notice that I had kept it, sliding it into my
sleeve. If she had missed it I would have returned it, claiming a chance misplacement. But she did not so it remained with me. How thoughtlessly I did it. How stupidly, foolishly naïve I was. Was I not aware that the room in which I slept, my possessions, were searched regularly by Lady Beatrice on behalf of the Queen?

I was aware, and still I kept the letter. Blinded by the dull ache that my life would never cross the path of Richard of Gloucester, that the memories would fade but not the pain of that lost love, I stole Richard’s letter and I read it over and over. Not for its content, obviously, but for the warm concern for his brother. For the memories it brought me. I needed a memory of his affection, his declared love, in a household where I was shown nothing but suspicion and hatred. It was not addressed to me, nor did it concern me directly, yet I kept it and comforted myself with the sight of something that came directly from him. It brought him close. I traced the words and remembered. I had so little of him, I would keep it. I had no pride.

I left Richard’s letter tucked away beneath my shifts in the clothes press.

How absurdly indiscreet. I did not at first notice its disappearance. Until it brought the Angevin wrath down on my head.

I was summoned.

The Queen sat in her room, much as she always did, with documents spread before her, letters from those
in England who would entice her back with fair words, but I could sense the lurking danger, the
frisson
as soon as I walked in. As thick as smoke, it all but choked me, warning me to keep my wits about me. The ladies-in-waiting who turned their eager expectant faces in my direction made no attempt to hide their anticipation. The Prince stood at her right hand. His expression told me all—the familiar temper, barely held in check, when affairs did not play to his liking. He would stand in judgement on me. I could expect no mercy here.

‘Well, my lady Anne…’ Margaret’s voice was seductively pleasant ‘…what have you to say for yourself?’

‘Have I done aught to displease you, Majesty?’ I tried to calm my breathing, but the nerves in my belly leapt like frogs in a pond.

‘Displease? What a trite word!’ Now the bite, the lash of loathing. ‘I have to struggle hard not to despise you. You should be on your knees, begging for mercy.’

‘What have I done, Majesty?’ I braced myself. When she pointed to the floor before her I knelt.

‘I know not what you have done. Maybe nothing as yet.’ Her lips curled in a bitter parody of a smile. ‘This was found.’ Richard’s letter was lifted from the table, waved gently to and fro. ‘You have nothing to say? You must recognise it. And from Richard of Gloucester, I see. It was found secreted in your clothes press. Was it sent to you?’

‘No, Majesty. It was not.’ Without a superscription, only the content and signature would prove incriminating. Yet I knew it would be enough. A request that the reader should abandon Lancaster and put his future into the hands of Edward of York. A splendidly treasonable note that would weigh against me.

‘So, if it was not sent to you, why do
you
have it?’

Because I love him and have nothing of him but his hand on this letter, even though it is not addressed to me. I have been separated from him for more than a year and the pain is as strong as ever. I am trapped in a loveless marriage where I am neither wife nor true bride. I am surrounded by those who hate me. Richard is the one constant in my life. I have it because it brings him close and soothes my sore heart. Because I love him…

I remained on my knees, lips clamped shut, my spine straight as I stared ahead. If she read it as defiance, then so be it. Better than to dissolve on the floor at her feet in pathetic grief that she would surely read as guilt.

‘You do not answer,’ the Prince snapped. ‘Have you indeed given your allegiance to the Yorkist Bastard?’

What should I say?
It was not me!
Should I denounce Isabel and Clarence as the recipients? I did not need to. Margaret was nothing if not politically astute. She raised a hand to silence her son, rising to her feet so that she towered over me, her skirts swishing, brushing against my shoulder with regal insolence as
she stalked around me, to return to look down at me again. When she spoke it was the Prince she addressed.

‘It would not be sent to your wife, of course. How should it have been? Of what importance is she, other than as your wife? She has no influence on events. But her sister, who decided without warning to leave our Court. And her husband, the Duke of Clarence. Yes, that is it. A warm letter from a loving brother to entice Clarence to change sides and throw in his lot with York.’ She swung round to point an imperious finger at me. ‘Was there a letter also from Edward? Did they both use their wiles to entice Clarence?’

I shook my head, but must have flushed.

The Queen laughed sharply, a crack of ill humour. ‘I see that there was. I won’t ask how they got here. Or how many weeks this letter has been in your possession. There are spies under every stone, behind every wall-hanging, looking for any opportunity to spread their poison. And would it surprise you to learn that this heart-rending plea for support, for a change of loyalties, was successful?’ She swung away from me to seize another document from the table, returning to thrust it under my nose. ‘Your treacherous brother by marriage has proved weak indeed. And I expect with your sister at his side, spurring him on. Does it surprise you?’ She angled her chin as my eyes fell before her accusations. ‘No. I can see that it does not.’

So Clarence had done it. Had Isabel concurred with his choice or had she tried to keep him loyal to the Earl? I could only guess that she had willingly taken her husband’s part. There was no need for me to deny my knowledge. I knew it was written on my face.

‘It was the most touching of reconciliations, dear Anne.’ The Prince advanced, hand offered to raise me to my feet. I accepted because I could not refuse. His gesture, his endearment, did not fool me for a minute. Fury raced across his attractive features, whilst his smooth tone was as deceptive as the Queen’s. ‘Carefully staged near Warwick. Both armies in battle array as if they would fight to the death, only half a mile between them with banners displayed. The damned Yorkist Bastard advanced, and so did Clarence as the heralds blew their triumphal blasts.’ The Prince’s teeth glinted in a wolfish smile. ‘Clarence knelt. Edward promised him restration of all his estates. A remarkable display of brotherly love between traitors as they both returned to York’s camp, arm in bloody arm. To share a cup of wine and plot the downfall of Lancaster. God’s wounds! Both as damnably deceitful and backstabbing as each other. But no surprise at their reconciliation, is there, Madam Wife, with letters passing between them?’

I remained silent.

‘Twelve thousand men, Clarence took with him to
York’s side, when he had sworn his service to me.’ The Prince continued to hammer at me, leaning close.
‘Twelve thousand
who would have fought for
us
and are now lost to us.’

The Queen’s eyes turned on me once more, hard with accusation. ‘But why do
you
have this? Why is it in
your
hands?’

And I cursed my careless, reckless decision to keep the letter with no excuse other than my loneliness—and that was no excuse worth the mentioning!

‘It is clear. It is from Gloucester. Is that not explanation enough?’ The Prince’s lips curved unpleasantly. He might have little thought of my value, but if my allegiance was compromised he would seize and hold fast. ‘You were once betrothed to him. Did you offer to be an intermediary, to ensure the letters reached your sister?’

The Queen nodded slowly as she considered. ‘Of course you would. You are as false as all the Nevilles. What a deplorable bargain I made when I agreed to take you as my daughter. Deceit and double-dealing bred in you from the cradle. Not only would you and your family swing to York at the least provocation but
you
would look fondly on Richard of Gloucester still. I wager you still hold him in some affection. Despite your marriage.’

‘That is not so!’ Spurred into denial at last. I could not admit my feelings. Dare not.

‘And I should believe you? When did you last communicate with Gloucester?’

‘Never. I have no contact with him, none since our betrothal was ended and I left England, almost a year ago.’ Fear at what awaited me at the hands of the Queen fired my resolve to deny her accusations. ‘There is nothing between us. I have never been anything but loyal to my lord Prince, my husband.’

‘Perhaps she is not even a virgin,’ Edward observed slyly.

Shame engulfed me, and also a fury to match Edward’s that I should be forced to answer such an accusation in so public a manner. It fanned the flames of resistance within me even higher and I looked directly at my husband. My reply burst from me. ‘I am a virgin. As I was when we wed, so I am still, and through no choice of mine.’ It delighted me to see the high colour flagged on his cheeks at the implication. ‘I am true to my marriage vows. I am true to you, my husband, even though you have not bedded me. You will not accuse me of disloyalty or infidelity in this manner!’

‘True in body, then.’ A sneer marred his lips as he tried to recover his ground. ‘But not in thought. You are not fit to be my wife.’

‘You have no cause to distrust me. I have never given you cause.’

‘Enough!’ the Queen ordered. ‘Go to your room. You will be watched closely. Soon we shall be in
England. You should pray to God that Monsieur de Warwick delivers what he has promised, or I shall break this charade of a marriage without compunction.’

I would have gone, anything to escape from the staring eyes, the faces bright with a fascination that would feed Court gossip for weeks to come. But Edward barred my way, shaking off his mother’s restraining hand.

‘I thought you hoped for my success. How deceived I have been. Here is the truth of your treachery.’

His hands might have loosened from fists, but he lashed out at me all the same. I did not see the blow, but his aim was good, without control. With the flat of his hand he struck my cheek, a shockingly sharp slap of a sound in the room. I had never been struck before. Certainly not a blow delivered with such intent and power. I felt the silence that followed it as much as I felt the pain along my cheekbone, in my jaw. For a moment my sight was dimmed as I staggered to keep my balance, as the pain ricocheted through my head. But I did not fall. I would not. Blinking against the pain and the pure shock, I called on all my strength, my self-possession, raising my head, holding his furious eyes.

‘I have done nothing to merit such treatment from you, my lord.’ I was astonished at my calm words, when my face throbbed, stiff and already swollen from the blow. ‘You do me an injustice. I
swear my innocence before all present here, if that is what you require. I have had no communication with the Duke of Gloucester since the Earl my father took up arms against York and offered his allegiance to Lancaster.’ I managed a curtsy, albeit a dangerous wobble. ‘I do not deserve such treatment from your hand.’

I curtsied to the Prince and the Queen with magnificent dignity, then turned and left the room. I could hear the whispers break out as soon as I had passed through the door.

Until it faded I covered the bruise with a layer of heavy white powder. It was in my mind to reveal to all the act of violence against me by my husband, but I could not. I would not be the subject of more speculation—or even worse, pity. For I was not locked into my room as I had feared, but forced to continue with my duties. To serve the Queen with all eyes on me. It was in a sense a permanent imprisonment since I was never alone. Lady Beatrice shared my bed, as far towards the edge as she could withdraw. Worst of all, I was forbidden my mother’s company. And Margery, who might have given me some solace, had gone with Isabel. The Prince did not come near me. So I was thrown back on my own devices to keep my spirits high and my self-control strong. In those difficult days I discovered within
myself a remarkable fortitude. I kept a cold dignity wrapped around me. I conversed when required, stitched and read for the Queen with a formidable composure. I never wept. Even at night when, by her shallow breathing, I deemed Beatrice to be asleep, I stared dry-eyed into the darkness. I would never show weakness in this hostile place, even thought for the first time I truly acknowledged how greatly I feared the Prince, not merely the humiliation, but the physical dominance. In my rampant imagination, brought on by loneliness, I flinched from the thought that one day he might deal with me as he had dispatched my finches.

It was from Beatrice that I was given the only crumb of comfort. As I sought to disguise the bruise she came to stand behind me, picking up the little pot of powder from the chest. ‘I admire your courage.’ She handed me the pot. ‘Not everyone can withstand the weight of the Queen’s anger. Can I suggest you apply a little more along the cheekbone? It will disguise it almost beyond comment.’

‘You took the letter to Margaret!’ I turned on her, all my pain surfacing.