Virgin Widow (36 page)

‘You will stay there.’

She left me, locking the door after her to ensure my obedience, knowing that it would at least cross my mind to attempt an escape. But short of running through the streets of London to cast myself on the mercy of the King, I did not know what to do. Then, before I could order my thoughts into some sensible plan, she was back. In her arms a bundle of clothes, a pair of stout leather shoes neatly balanced on the top.

‘Here!’ She tossed them on to the bed. ‘Put these on. Quickly.’ Her lips were folded hard. She did not once meet my eye.

‘What…?’ I could see enough of the garments to think she had run mad. ‘Isabel…’ Surely I could appeal to her. She was my
sister
!

‘Don’t argue!’

‘I won’t do it!’ I folded my arms, attempting to stare her down, mutinous to the last. And I continued to face her even when my belly lurched at the lack of compassion I read in her face. It was almost as if she absorbed Clarence’s hatred into her own soul and her words tightened the knot in my chest further.

‘You do it yourself, Anne, or I summon a servant to dress you. Do you want that? It will be far more degrading than for you to do it yourself.’

‘Don’t you dare speak to me of degradation!’ But because she left me no choice, and I had no wish to be manhandled into the garments, I did as I was bid. ‘What in God’s name do you intend…?’ Viciously, with the worst of ill grace, I pulled off my over-gown, not caring if I tore the delicate braiding, turning my back brusquely so that she could unlace the rich silk below.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

Her fingers were as rough as mine, yanking the lacing apart, so that soon the fashionable under-gown with its embroidered panels also fell to the floor. I pushed it aside with my foot.

Isabel was not satisfied. ‘Everything!’

So I stripped off my stockings, my fine linen shift, then began to don Isabel’s choice of garments. The new Anne Neville, I thought in disgust, as I pulled on the coarse woollen material. Lady Anne, or Princess Anne, had never worn cloth such as this, a coarse weaving that snagged her skin and lay roughly on neck and wrist. Lady Anne Neville had never tied her hair into a swathe of such poorly woven material. Would never have considered anything so unfashionable or so unflattering. A thin shift that barely reached my knees, a skirt made for another so that it hung loosely on my small frame to drag on the floor, a wide tunic
to cover all and be cinched with a cord belt. I could imagine myself in the muddy brown and dark green of my new ensemble. Lady Anne with her dark hair and pale skin would never have chosen such colours.

What was Lady Anne to do with this new creature? Not a thing. This was a servant, dull and anonymous to blend with the other servants in the house. Was this to be my disguise, my future? Did Isabel intend to work me as a servant in her own house? Never far away in recent days, panic lurched again beneath my heart.

Isabel cast an eye over me. As if to answer my question she pursed her lips and issued more orders. ‘Tuck up the skirts, sister. They’re too long. Fold up the sleeves as well, to your elbow. There’ll be no leisure for you for a little while.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘Put on those shoes.’

‘I can’t believe this, Isabel.’ All I could think to say.

‘You will,’ she snapped.

Whilst I tugged on the rough leather, Isabel began to gather my possessions together into a heap on the bed—my gowns and shifts from the presses, my Book of Hours from the night-stand, a jewel chest—until everything I owned was tumbled together on the coverlet and the room stripped of any evidence that I had ever been there. Even my own rosary that I had hung on the
prie-dieu.
If anyone came to search for me they would find no trace of me here. If Richard came to find me he would assuredly believe that I had gone
from London. I just stood and watched my sister busily stacking my shoes beside the rest. She ignored me and my baleful look until the door opened and Margery, after struggling with the latch, stood there, a bowl and ewer in her arms. She halted clutching them to her bosom as with suddenly narrowed eyes she took note of the room. And then of me standing in the midst.

‘Lady Anne…?’ She turned to Isabel. ‘My lady!’

‘Close the door,’ Isabel ordered. ‘I should have locked it, but no matter. You would have to know some time.’

Obeying, depositing her burden, Margery turned, her broad face an essay in disapproval. ‘What have you done? Why have—?’

‘Nothing that is your concern,’ Isabel interrupted briskly. ‘And not one word about this. One word of gossip over this reaches me, and you will be dismissed from my service.’

‘Isabel Neville!’ Resorting to her role of nurse to a naughty child, Margery’s chest heaved. ‘How dare you treat your sister so, to bring dishonour to your name! I don’t know what you intend, but…’

‘No. I am not Isabel Neville, a child to be scolded and disciplined. I am Duchess of Clarence. I don’t care how long you have been in our household, or that you were my mother’s nurse before mine. You have no power over me and my wishes. I can reduce
you to earning a living in the gutters of London if you condemn my actions.’ And having reduced Margery to appalled silence, she turned to me. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready to be a servant?’ I laughed at the enormity of it. ‘Have you let Clarence influence you to the extent of betraying your own sister?’

She did not reply, other than to snap out an order. ‘Come with me. You don’t speak to anyone, look at anyone. You walk behind me in silence as any servant might. Unless you wish to be locked in a cellar.’ And then to an astounded Margery, ‘Finish packing these into a travelling chest. When Gloucester comes, my sister is already at Tewkesbury. She left last week, having felt the need to embrace a contemplative life. Do you understand?’

Margery just looked at me, aghast. I shook my head and managed a wry twist of my mouth. ‘There you have it, Margery, from my sister’s own lips. Who would have believed that she would go to such lengths to get our mother’s money and land? The Countess under guard in Beaulieu and me locked away in Tewkesbury. Or, it seems, put to work as a kitchen slut.’ I could no longer keep the bitterness from spilling out to flood the room. ‘Who would have thought the noble and beautiful Duchess of Clarence capable of such a magnificent revenge against her own sister, for daring to be joint heiress of their mother’s fortune?’

‘My lady!’ Hands clasped together, Margery tried a final appeal. ‘You can’t do this. What will people say?’

‘Who will know? This is how it will be.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’ And in that moment I saw the gleam of tears on Margery’s lined cheek. ‘I understand only too well.’

‘Good. And keep a still tongue in your head.’

Isabel opened the door and walked through, not even questioning that I would follow and I did because there was no alternative.

But not before my eye had been caught. The shine of mother-of-pearl and dark, well-polished wood beneath the folds of a velvet damask cloak. That was one thing I would never allow Isabel to dispose of. She could take my clothes and my jewels, even my Book of Hours, but not that. I snatched the little inlaid wooden box that had been with me from my childhood and enclosed my most cherished possessions. I pushed it urgently into Margery’s hands.

‘Keep it for me. Hide it.’

I followed my sister.

I had never before been into the kitchens at Cold Harbour. Not that they were any surprise to me when I stood there at my sister’s shoulder. These rooms set aside in one wing near the river were smaller, were compact as befitted a town house, but still uncomfortably reminiscent of Middleham. The cavernous fire
places belched soot and smoke. Grease coated all surfaces and the permanent smell of roast meats choked the air, as did the stench of the nearby midden.

I was to become closely acquainted with this world within a world.

Isabel dealt with the delicate situation forthrightly, embroidering a total fabrication, arrogantly ignoring the looks of disbelief on all sides. Not Clarence, of course. He wouldn’t do it, I sneered silently. The Duke of Clarence standing in the middle of his own kitchen, where his fine clothes might be soiled with grease or made rancid with smoke? Never. So it was Isabel who addressed herself to the Steward.

‘Here is a new servant come from Warwick, Master Pritchard. Her name is Mary Fletcher.’ I had to be impressed. Isabel did not even hesitate, simply adopting the name of a dairy girl at Warwick. Not did her eyes flicker, not once, unlike those of the Cook and Steward, who froze into rigid amazement, not knowing where to look. How could they not know the identity of their newest kitchen wench? Isabel continued in an imperiously cold voice, her stare pinning the unfortunate Steward. Her words painted a vivid picture of what my life was to be like from now on.

‘Put her to work here in the kitchen. Watch her close. There must be no communication between her and any who are not servants in my household. She does not go into the audience or family rooms. Keep
her
here.
She will sleep with the other kitchen maids on a pallet in the room off the scullery. You will on no account allow her out of your sight, or that of one of your trusted officers. I put this burden on you, personally, Master Pritchard.’

‘Yes, your Grace,’ he managed. I saw a quick glance slide from Master Pritchard to the Cook. ‘Ah…and how long, your Grace?’ Master Pritchard enquired with barely a quiver in his voice.

‘Until I decide otherwise.’

‘Of course, your Grace.’

‘You will treat her as any servant. I rely on your loyalty to myself and my husband in this. Any failure on your part will result in instant dismissal. Do you take my meaning?’

‘Yes, your Grace. Of course, your Grace.’

Without another word, Isabel swept past me, to leave me standing in the shocked silence. What did I think of this? Indeed, I could not think at all. I would have been embarrassed to see the length to which my sister would go to get her hands on the Beauchamp inheritance—or to please Clarence—if I had not been so thoroughly outraged. To work as a servant in Clarence’s kitchens, from princess to kitchen wench, within a year, all my rank and dignity stripped from me. It was monstrous! I might have laughed, but there was no humour here. And how would Richard ever find me? Who would come to
my aid? No one would ever look for Anne Neville in her sister’s kitchens.

Which is exactly,
I told myself as I was put to work scouring a fire-blackened pot,
what Clarence has planned.

‘Use this. It helps.’

Master Hough, the Cook, shoved a pot of grease across the table towards me. He was busy dismembering a coney, stripping off the skin with callous unconcern. I did not think he had noticed my hiss of pain as I picked up—and dropped—a hot pan from the fire-grate. The clatter of metal on stone must have alerted him. It was the first sign of overt sympathy I had been shown, and meant more than a thousand words of comfort. I wrinkled my nose at the heavy ointment, but there was also the whiff of herbs. Rosemary, I thought. I rubbed it on to my burnt fingers. And to a recent scald on my wrist for good measure. Sighed as it soothed.

‘You are very kind, sir.’ It was all I could say.

‘This will not be for ever, my lady,’ he whispered before giving his attention back to the unfortunate rabbit.

But it seemed like it. Because there was nothing else they could do, Master Pritchard and Master Hough put me to work. I became Mary Fletcher. It was a different world, a different life, and I did not have the skills for much of it. All I had was stamina and a
burning determination to survive and one day be revenged. It carried me through long days of hard work and a succession of sleepless nights on an even harder pallet in a scullery where the stench of the midden became even keener. Until finally I slept from sheer exhaustion. If I learnt anything in those miserable days, it was the lack of respect felt towards their royal master. The servants saw beneath the gilded wealth and handsome exterior to the selfish arrogance. They had no love for him, nor for my sister. They obeyed the Duke and Duchess in fear of dismissal and nothing more.

I was not given the worst of the tasks. I have to give some credit to Master Hough, who shielded me as much as he could without drawing attention to it, but my life as Lady Anne Neville had not prepared me for such an existence. I washed and scoured, cut, chopped and scraped. Carried and swept. My back ached and muscles strained with the unaccustomed work. I was never allowed out of the kitchens, not even to fetch and carry from other parts of the house. My nights, as ordered by my sister, were spent on a straw pallet in the room with two kitchen girls who had to be up before dawn to coax the fires back into life before the rest of the household woke. In my blacker moments I also thought I shared it with any number of lice, fleas and rats.

I was not ill treated. No blows or harsh reprimands
as was customary for those around me who were too slow or too clumsy. I think they did not know how to treat me. But it was a lonely existence. No one spoke to me beyond the next instruction.
There will be no communication,
Isabel had ordered, and so that was how it was. Eyes avoided mine. Gossip or friendly chatter stopped immediately when I entered one of the sculleries. The kitchen maids kept their distance, not through any dislike of me but for fear of getting too close and the repercussion for them if they did.

So my life became a series of burns and blisters and aching limbs. I found that I was not quick or handy enough to dodge the burning cinder or juggle the hot dish. I tried. I did not complain. Who would I complain to? It was not their fault that I was foisted on them. I suppose they tolerated my clumsiness well enough. No tears were shed by me, even in the dark of the night when I might have buried the sound in my pillow. No one must be allowed to pity me. I clung to my pride as a drowning man would clutch at a floating spar of wood and through it all I was buttressed by my determination to foil Clarence’s plan to separate me from Richard and secure my mother’s wealth.

This will not be for ever.