Virgin Widow (4 page)

‘I am twelve years old. I am already a Knight of the Garter.’

‘Only because your brother is King!’

He shrugged as he bent to pat a hound that had wandered in, clearly not prepared to offer any more conversation.

‘I too am very important,’ I informed him. I had no dignity.

‘You are a girl. And still a child.’

Which put me entirely in my place. I turned on my heel and stomped from the room, leaving him to make his own way or wait for Isabel’s tender mercies. I think it was Francis Lovell who eventually took pity on him and took him to my mother’s chamber. I was not there. Lady Masham had run me to ground in her fussy manner and scolded me for absenting myself from my lessons.

I was not satisfied with my brief acquaintance.

Richard Plantagenet continued to say little, but
took to his studies well enough. He intrigued me. His confidence. His quiet, self-contained competence. I began to haunt the exercise yard and the lists when I could where he practised the knightly drills. And I was right. He suffered. He did not have the stature or strength of muscle to hold his own against Francis, who was often pitted against him. Richard spent a lot of time sprawled in the dust and dirt. But he did not give in. And I had to admire his courage, his determination to scrape himself up from the floor. Quick and alert, he soon learned that he could make up in guile and speed for what he lacked in size and weight. He could ride a horse as if born in the saddle.

But still he was often on the floor with a bloody nose and dust plastered over his face. After a particularly robust session with sword and shield, Master Ellerby sent him to sit on the bench as the side of the exercise yard. Still dazed, Richard Plantagenet rubbed his face and nose on his sleeve. I crept along by the wall and sat on the bench with him. An opportunity too good to miss, to find out more whilst his guard was down. What did I want to know? Anything, really. Anything to explain this solemn youth who sat quietly at meals, who carved the roast beef with stern concentration, who watched and absorbed and said little.

‘Are you content here?’ I asked for want of anything more interesting to say.

He snorted, pushing his hair from his eyes. ‘Better
when my head is not ringing from the Master’s gentle blows! I swear Edward did not intend me to be knocked senseless when he sent me here.’

‘You said you did not want to be here.’ The implied criticism of Middleham still rankled. ‘Where would you rather be, that’s better than here?’

‘With my brother. In London. That’s where I shall go when I am finished here.’

‘Do you miss your family?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Not much.’

‘Do you have brothers other than the King? Sisters?’

‘Yes. Ten.’

‘Ten?’ Shock made me turn to face him. ‘I only have Isabel. That’s enough.’

‘But some are dead, and all are older than I. George of Clarence is the one I know best.’

‘You are the Duke of Gloucester.’ I had acquired some knowledge since our exchange of views. ‘Your father was attainted traitor when he fought against the Lancastrian upstart Henry, the last king.’

‘Yes.’ Richard bared his teeth. ‘And he died for it on the battlefield at Wakefield. And my brother Edmund with him. Margaret of Anjou, Queen Margaret, had my father’s head cut from his body and put on a spike above Micklegate Bar in York. A despicable end for a brave man.’

It was the longest speech I had heard him make. He still felt the hurt of it.

‘Did you have to hide?’

‘In a way. We—my brother Clarence and my mother—had to go into exile for our safety. We went to the Netherlands.’ His guard was clearly down, offering so much.

‘Did you like it?’ I could not imagine being forced to leave England in fear of my life, being forced to beg for charity from some foreign family and be unsure that I would ever be able to return. I knew I would have hated it.

‘Well enough.’

Now what? I sought for another topic to lure him into speech. It was difficult. ‘Were you called Richard after your father? I was named Anne for my mother.’

‘No. After
your
grandfather, Richard Neville, the Earl of Salisbury. He stood as my godfather at my baptism and so I was named Richard.’

‘Oh.’ His connection with my family was getting stronger. His nose still bled and his sleeve was well spotted with blood. I handed him a square of linen. Lady Masham would have approved, I thought.

‘My thanks.’ He inclined his head with a courtly little gesture, then, wincing, applied the linen with careful enthusiasm.

‘Where were you born?’

‘Fotheringhay.’

‘I was born here. I like it here more than any place else.’

‘I like it too,’ he admitted suddenly, an admission that promptly warmed me to him. ‘It reminds me of Ludlow where I spent some months when I was much younger. Before we were driven out by the Lancastrians at the point of a sword.’ There was the bitterness again.

‘Why were you sent here? Why
here?’

His angled look was wary as if unsure of the reason for my question. I had no ulterior motive other than basic inquisitiveness.

‘It was the only household of sufficient rank for my education. As King Edward’s brother…’ He seemed unaware that his shoulders had straightened. ‘My brother and your father are very close. The Earl fought for Edward, helped him get the throne. Perhaps without the Earl he never would have done it. So where other should I have been sent but here? My brother the King has paid well for my upkeep. He sent a thousand pounds.’

I nodded as if I understood. It sounded a vast sum. We sat in silence as he tried ineffectually to brush the dirt from the front of his jacket.

‘Will you fight again today?’

‘When I’ve got my breath back. Which I suppose I have since I’ve done nothing but talk to you for the past minutes.’ He stood and flexed his muscles in his back and thighs with a groan.

‘Perhaps you should not?’

‘Do you think I cannot?’ Looking down at where I still sat, a sudden sparkle, a glow of sheer pride, burst in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘I was lucky to survive my childhood, I’m told. It was a surprise to everyone, including my mother the Duchess who got into the habit of assuring everyone in the household every morning that I was still alive.’ He grinned, showing neat even teeth. ‘I survived and I will be a prince without equal. A bout with a blunt sword will not see me off to my grave.’

‘No.’ It made me smile too. I believed him.

As he would have picked up the practice sword from the bench, I found myself stretching out my hand to stop him. His eyes met mine and held, the light still there.

‘I’m glad you survived.’

I was astounded at what I had said, could not understand why I had said it. I leapt to my feet and ran before he could respond, or I was discovered where I should not be.

I think it was in September of that year that I had my first experience of the painful cut and thrust of political manoeuvring. It was when our household moved to York for a week of celebration and festivity.

It began auspiciously enough. The Earl, my father, was particularly good humoured, not a common occurrence in the months after the King’s marriage,
which he viewed with tight-lipped displeasure. It seemed to circle round the King’s choice for his new Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. She was a widow from a low-born
avaricious
family, all of them grasping and greedy for power, and so quite unsuitable. I did not understand why being a widow should make her an unacceptable wife, since her previous husband was conveniently dead. Nor was
avaricious
quite within my grasp. But so it was. The marriage, I learnt, had been performed in
disgraceful secrecy.
I wondered why a King should need to do anything in
disgraceful secrecy.
Could he not simply order affairs to his own liking?

‘That’s exactly what he’s done,’ the Earl snarled over a platter of bread and beef. ‘He’s followed his own desires. And at what cost to this realm? He’s deliberately gone against my advice. I have to suppose I am of no further value to him, now that he has the Woodvilles ready to bow and scrape and obey every order.’ Temper sat on him like a thundercloud.

Thus it was a relief when our visit to York lightened his mood. We were dressed and scrubbed and polished and instructed on our behaviour, to be seemly at all times. I had a new gown because at nine years I was growing fast. We walked the short distance to the great cathedral and took our seats. Important seats in the chancel because, as Isabel whispered to me as the congregation massed behind us, we were the most important family present. The choir sang. The
priests processed with candles and silver cross and incense. And there at the centre of it all was Bishop George Neville, my father’s youngest brother, my uncle, splendid in the rich cope and gilded mitre of his office. Now to be enthroned as Archbishop of York. It was a magnificent honour for our family.

Except that a heavy frown pulled the Earl’s brows into a black bar. He was not pleased. Nor his other brother, my uncle Lord John, the Earl of Northumberland. I could just see them seated together if I leaned forwards, impressive in satin and fur, in an angry, whispered conversation with each other. Their words held a sharp bite, but I was not close enough to make them out.

‘What is it?’ I whispered to Francis Lovell on my left side. ‘What’s wrong?’

He nodded over to our left.
‘Empty!’
he mouthed the word silently.

I leaned forwards to see. At the side of the chancel in pride of place were two magnificent thrones of carved and gilded wood, obviously placed there for some important personages. The only seats in the cathedral not occupied.

‘Who?’

It was Richard, seated neat and resplendent in dark velvet on my other side who answered with the croak of adolescent youth, ‘My brother the King and his wife, Elizabeth Woodville. They have not come. They were expected.’

‘Oh!’ I saw that there was a frown on his face almost to equal my father’s. ‘Does it matter?’ I hissed
sotto voce.

Richard frowned harder. ‘Yes. I think it does.’

We were hushed with a sharp glance from the Countess as the new Archbishop took his episcopal throne. The ceremony drew to a close and the treble voices of the choir lifted in jubilation at George Neville’s investiture. Perhaps the pride on his features too was muted as he saw the proof of absent guests. His smile gained a sour edge.

Afterwards we gathered on the forecourt before the west door, collecting the household together before returning to our lodging.

‘We should have expected it, should we not!’The Earl made no attempt to lower his voice.

My mother place a placatory hand on his arm. ‘The King himself suggested the promotion for your brother. He
chose
George personally and it is a great honour.’

‘But not to be present at his enthronement? God’s Blood! It’s a deliberate provocation. An insult to our name and my position.’

‘There may be a reason—’

‘The only reason I can think of is a personal slight against me and mine. He should have been here. You can’t persuade me that the King was not aware of how his absence would be read by those who wish us ill.’

But who would wish us ill? I had known nothing but love and care in my nine years. The Lancastrians, of
course, would have no affection for the Earl of Warwick, but they were defeated, old King Henry touched in his mind and kept fast in the Tower, his queen and son in exile, whilst King Edward held my father in high regard. So who would wish to cause us harm?

‘There may be other demands on his time…’ the Countess persisted.

‘Woodville demands. It’s that woman’s doing. She has the King wound round her manipulating fingers, as tight as any bowstring. I wager she kept him from York. Has the King no sense…?’

‘Hush! You’ll be overheard.’

‘I care not.’

I was increasingly aware of Richard’s taut figure beside me. When I edged close, took hold of his sleeve and pulled to attract his attention, to try to discover the reason for his stark pallor, the stormy glitter of his eyes, he snatched his arm away, which movement caught the Earl’s eye; as he glowered in Richard’s direction, I thought for the briefest of moments that he would turn his anger on this youngest brother of the King. He frowned at the pair of us as if we had been discovered in some mischief, sharp words rising to his lips.

But the Earl’s face softened as he moved towards us.

‘Anne.’ He touched my shoulder, a gentle clasp. Smiled at Richard, and there was no hostility there. ‘Don’t be concerned, boy. Whatever is between your brother and myself does not rest on your back. You
need broader shoulders than yours yet to take on your brother’s misdemeanours. It’s not for you to worry about.’

‘No, sir.’ Richard dropped his eyes.

‘Is my uncle George still Archbishop, even though the King did not come?’ I asked.

‘He is.’ My childish query made my father laugh. ‘We’ll forget Edward and celebrate with your uncle, for his and our own promotion. It’s a proud day, after all.’

Yet the incident of the empty thrones had cast a cloud over the whole ceremony and again over the sumptuous feast where we continued to celebrate, when it was necessary for the chairs set for the King and Queen to be shuffled quickly away and the seating rearranged. The music and singing, the magnificent banquet, the noisy conversations of the Nevilles and their dependents neatly covered over any lack in the occasion, but it remained there, an unease, as unpleasant as a grub in the heart of an apricot. I did not understand, but I remembered the harsh reaction to the name of Woodville.

I cornered Richard before he could make his escape that night. He still had a bleak expression, but that had never stopped me. ‘Why was my father so angry?’

‘You must ask him.’

‘You think the Earl would tell me?’ I was of an age to resent being kept in the dark. ‘I’m asking you.’
Sympathy at the dark emotion in his eyes moved my inquisitive heart. ‘Tell me about Elizabeth Woodville.’

It was as if I had touched a nerve and his reply was without control. ‘My brother should never have married her. My mother hates her. I hate her too.’