Virgin Widow (38 page)

‘I am her guardian, God damn you! I say where she will live, who she will wed.’

‘You are not her guardian. She is of age. And what guardian would consign his ward—and a Neville, by God!—to work in the kitchens as a drudge? You’ll pay for this, Clarence. I swear you will.’

‘And who will exact the price, little brother? You?’ The sneer was ugly, venom filled the courtyard. Suddenly Clarence had a sword in his hand. Surely not! I suppressed a whimper, a sure symptom of my nervous state, as he raised the point to rest against Richard’s breastbone. But if Richard was unnerved, it was not apparent. With a careless hand he pushed the blade away, never taking his eyes, dark and stony, from Clarence. His laugh was hard and humourless.

‘Will you run me through, unarmed and unprovoked before so many witnesses? That’s not your style! Look around you, brother. It may be your house, but all I see is my men with enough force and weapons to call you to account. You’ll not live out the minute if you harm me or mine.’

When Clarence’s eyes flickered at the threat I knew
him for a coward. The point of his blade wavered, yet still he would not retreat from verbal attack. ‘She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours. God damn you to hell!’

‘Not for rescuing the lady from a situation that was humiliating and degrading.’

But by now I was beyond weary. I tightened my fingers on Richard’s sleeve, clutched his cloak around me to bolster my dignity and, whatever the wisdom of it, I stepped between them in an attempt to bring an end to it.

‘It is my wish to leave this place.’ Inwardly I marvelled at the steadiness of my voice when tears of exhaustion and relief were not far away. Still I was able to raise my head, firm my shoulders. ‘I will go with Gloucester. It is my choice. Put up your sword.’

‘You hear her.’ I was drawn gently back into the protection of Richard’s arm. ‘The game’s over. You are undone, brother.’

The sword was slammed back into its scabbard.

‘I’ll not forget this!’ Clarence’s parting shot was an empty husk.

‘Neither shall I. I should thrash you for it. She did not deserve such outrageous treatment.’

The chasm yawned at our feet. I was not the cause, yet I felt the guilt. This rift between them would never be mended, nor between myself and Isabel. I was sorry for it, but the healing was beyond me, just as the creation of the divide was not of my doing.
Ambition and greed had destroyed my family and now seemed like to do the same with Richard’s. For now there was nothing more to be done. Richard signalled to his men to mount up, then turned to me, the lines about his mouth softened despite the lingering temper.

‘Will you come with me?’

It was a quaintly polite request given the circumstances, allowing me the opportunity to change my mind if I so wished, but he knew the answer.

‘I will.’ And I meant more than just the journey out through the gates. As had he.

So Richard swung up on to his horse, holding the animal in check as the sergeant lifted me, so that I might ride pillion behind him.

‘Hold tight. Hold on to me.’

And I did, Clarence scowling after us, as I left Cold Harbour for ever.

The journey was astonishingly short and entirely uneventful. I had thought it might be to Westminster, or even to the Tower of London where accommodation could be found for me. Any closet-like room in any one of the towers would be preferable. Not Warwick Inn, my father’s London house where it would be a simple matter for Clarence to take me into custody again. Perhaps Baynard’s Inn, then, Richard’s family home in the city. But Richard had other ideas,
leading his force rapidly through the streets of the City. We rode in silence, with an urgency I could feel through the palms of my hands pressed against his waist. Conscious of my appearance, I kept the hood pulled up, the folds of the cloak close wrapped, not wishing to be seen and recognised and gossiped over. On the other hand, everyone must know the royal duke. There were calls of support when the white boar was glimpsed, causing him to raise his hand in acknowledgement.

Meanwhile, as his stallion checked and sidled at the noise and bustle around us I held tight as I had been instructed, my cheek turned against the chilly velvet of his doublet. It was no hardship to do so, not so difficult to enjoy the firmness of his soldier’s frame. It crossed my mind that he must be cold in the sharp wind without his cloak, but it had been a grand gesture. I snuggled into the soft folds without compunction. Then we were riding along Newgate and I knew where he would take me. It was the obvious place for a lady whose freedom was under any form of threat. So it was no surprise when we turned into the mellow stone buildings of St Martin le Grand and its welcome sanctuary. The gates were opened as we approached so that I could only presume that we were expected as the peace of the sanctuary fell about me.

It was a seamless arrival and I played my part as if in a dream, with words of gratitude, only now realising
how physically weary I was. I barely listened to the low-voiced conversation between Richard and the priest who came forwards to receive us. Nor did I respond when the silent priest led me into the warren of corridors, apparently unmoved by my sudden and unusual arrival. Rooms suitable to my rank had been made ready, I realised, well furnished and comfortable enough. There was a quietness here, a calm distancing from the world as the noise of the city seemed far off beyond the closed windows. A fire had been lit to welcome me. The impression of thoughtful care was suddenly overwhelming.

Yet I felt that Richard was in a hurry with no thought to stay. He stood just within the door as the cleric bowed himself out.

‘You’ll be safe here. I’ve spoken with your uncle, who’s only too willing to ensure your sanctuary. Clarence cannot harm you here.’

‘Thank you.’ I knew my uncle well. My father’s brother, George Neville, Archbishop of York, would allow no man to dictate to him. I would be safe under his fierce protection. Now that we were alone together embarrassment took hold. Unsure of what to do next, I took off the cloak, folding it over my arm. Then as the warm air surrounded me, I sniffed. The combined reek of smoke and tallow and fat, of unwashed clothes and my own unwashed body, rose to my nostrils in pungent waves.

‘You might want to burn this.’ Stroking the soft nap, I regarded him quizzically. ‘I don’t think I should return it to you in this state!’ I tried to smile my apology, but seemed drained of all feeling. All was still so uncertain because, although I was free of Clarence, I could see no clear way before me. Nor could I see the way for myself and Richard. Then I caught Richard’s eye. It held a speculative gleam.

‘What?’ Even I could hear the edge in my voice.

‘I don’t know whether I should laugh at your amazing appearance, Princess, or return to Cold Harbour and run Clarence through with his own sword.’

‘By the Virgin, don’t you dare laugh!’

To do him justice he did not. I think he read me well enough to sense that it might just push me over the edge into a cataclysm of either tears or temper. Instead he looked me over from head to foot and I cringed at what I knew he must see. I was Mary, a kitchen maid. From the coarse linen veil covering my greasy hair to the skirt of my over-dress, looped up in my belt to keep it from the ashes. From my grease-spattered bodice and grubby sleeves to my ill-made shoes, I was not the picture to delight the eye of any man. And I was woman enough to despair at what he must see. I dropped my gaze to the level of his own luxurious boots. I could not bear to see disgust or distaste in his face. I resisted the desire to scratch as I waited for him to leave.

To my horror, Richard advanced.

‘Don’t come near me!’ I raised my hands, palms out, eyes now lifting to his. ‘Don’t tell me what I look like!’

But still he came on, and reached out to take my hands, until I thrust them behind me to hide the evidence of my work in my sister’s kitchens. Undeterred, he took my arms, drawing me forwards, persisting until my hands lay within his. I stared dismayed at the contrast. True, his were the hands of a soldier with calluses from sword and rein, but still well tended. Jewels flashed on his fingers, his nails well pared. The hands of a courtier. Whereas mine, even in the short time I had mistreated them…

I hissed in a breath as I contemplated the ruin. ‘The remnants of poor Mary Fletcher.’

‘Who?’

I shook my head, ridiculously shamed that he should see me like this, as if it were my own fault. I could not speak, watching him, needing to see the truth. If it was disgust, then I must know it. But his face took on a grim, unreadable cast as he smoothed his fingers over my roughened knuckles, grey with ingrained grime. What he thought of my nails, ragged and torn with black edges, I could not imagine. Then there were the burns and rough patches, a red weal across my wrist that my sleeve could not hide. When I drew in a breath in discomfort at the pressure of his hands, he released me.

Perhaps he was disgusted after all.

‘I must leave you, Anne. I have business with the King.’

‘Of course.’ Disappointment was intense, but I would not show it.

‘You are alone here, but you are entirely safe.’

‘Yes.’

With a little smile, and although I knew I stiffened, he rubbed his knuckles gently along my cheek, before bending to replace them with his lips, soft as a breath. It was the most unexpected of salutes and, considering my unwashed state, it was an act of true chivalry. Then he was on his way, opening the door. Well, of course he would have other things to do. But at the door Richard looked back and his smile widened at my scowl.

‘Do I look so very bad?’

‘Yes. But you’ll be beautiful again. I’ll send someone with hot water.’

I returned the smile. ‘By the Virgin, I shall be grateful.’

And laughed aloud when I realised that he had left the cloak behind.

A lengthy moment of sheer and utter bliss.

I sank up to my chin in the heat. True to his word Richard had given the order, resulting in a procession of servants bringing a wooden tub to my rooms and buckets of hot water. My knees under my chin, it was a tight fit even for my small frame, but the heat and
the scattering of herbs lulled me until I found myself drifting into sleep, until I shook myself awake, the sharp perfume of rosemary restoring me to clear thought as its oils soothed my hurts.

What now?

The room was quiet around me. After so many days, weeks, when my every movement was watched, both in England and in France, it was a moment to be savoured. One of the young maids, Meggie, had offered to stay and see to my needs but had left to find a suitable robe and a shift and hopefully a pair of shoes that would come close to fitting. Nothing would persuade me to don my filthy servant’s garb again. So, absorbing the stillness, I brought my mind to bear on the future.

Marriage, to Richard, when His Holiness the Pope saw fit to grant his dispensation. Delight touched me from head to foot, soft and luxurious, as comforting as the scented herbs, coupled with a disturbing fire between my thighs that owed nothing to the heat of the bath. It licked and bloomed at the thought of belonging to Richard at last, driving bright colour to my hairline.

Enough! I rubbed my hands over my face, directing my thoughts elsewhere, to the matter of my inheritance. Richard would support me, fight for what was mine. I could put that on one side until the marriage documents were signed and sealed. Another worry raised its
head to take its place, causing me to sit up, muscles tight. What of my mother, who seemed destined to live out her days in Beaulieu with no one to fight for her cause, whilst her inherited wealth was discussed and squabbled over as if she were already in her grave?

But
I
would fight for her, I promised myself. I would never allow Clarence to grab what was not rightfully Isabel’s. As soon as I was Duchess of Gloucester I would insist on the Countess’s release. Richard would get it for me.

Promising to write to her, to reassure her of my intentions on her behalf, I sank back beneath the water to the tip of my nose.

The maid returned and bustled around me. She soaped and washed my long hair, rinsing it again and again until it squeaked through her fingers and I sighed with sheer pleasure. Clucking much as Margery would have done, she proceeded to rub a salve into my hands. It would take longer to put those to rights. Dressed in a shift and a loose robe, both of which swamped me and trailed on the floor, my hair combed out over my shoulders to dry, I was left alone again to sit at the window, idly watching the coming and going in the street below. Sliding my feet out of the over-large shoes, I tucked them under me and set myself to take stock.

I should have been full of happiness. But the sharp darts of worry returned, a flurry of accurate arrows to pierce and annoy with Richard at their centre. The
spectre of Edward of Lancaster’s death continued to hover over me, my mind following that tortuous path again and again to dim my previous delight. Nor could I rest as my mind covered the same old ground that an ambitious man would wed an heiress even if he hated her worse than the Devil! No, Richard did not hate me. But did he want to wed me for my wealth, claiming my inheritance much as Clarence was claiming Isabel’s? Is that why he had put himself at such odds with his brother to rescue me? If that was so, there was little to choose between the two brothers, Clarence or Gloucester.

No. I would never believe that.

In sudden, honest recollection, I pressed my fingers against my lips, savouring the reminiscent clench in my belly. Richard had come to me, rescued me. Richard had not kissed me as if his only interest was my wealth. I remembered the stark lines on his face, the brilliance of his eyes as he stared at me. The heat, the force, the
fierceness
of it. Was that the kiss of a lover? I had no experience to guide me, except that it had turned my knees to water, my heart to the sweetness of honey. I would gladly repeat it if Richard was of a mind…

I hoped Richard would return, and soon.

But he did not.

I remained in my room. Dinner at eleven o’clock was heralded by Meggie with a mug of ale and a platter
of bread and hard cheese, before she was gone, leaving me to fill the long hours of the afternoon, so that when there was a knock on the door of my parlour, I leapt to my feet to open it.