Virgin Widow (43 page)

Clarence, also surprised, paled with cold fury. ‘Vixen! You would speak for an attainted traitor—’

But Richard intervened. ‘Enough, Clarence. Curb your temper. You’ll show my wife the respect due to her. Nor will you deny her what is hers by the law of the land.’ Richard’s grip was warm and strong, crushing my fingers, impossible to ignore. Leave
it to me,
it transmitted.
Let me shoulder this burden.

‘The law, by God! I’ll show you the power of the law! You’ll not get a single rose-noble from that inheritance. Not one acre of land, not one castle! They’ll all pass to my heirs, I swear it.’

‘Your heirs are destined to be disappointed,’ Richard snapped back.

He has not mentioned it. That I carry his child. Why has he not said?

‘I’ll fight you for it if I have to…’ I watched as Clarence’s eyes glittered at the prospect of such a conflict. Richard took a step and I felt his hand move to the hilt of his sword, but, at last, Edward stepped between.

‘Quietly now. Hardly the time for blood-letting.
The inheritance is a matter yet to be decided, and I’ll do so, but this is not the time. We neglect the bride.’ Claiming my hand from Richard, he placed me at his side, a cunning little manoeuvre to produce a formidable barrier between the two warring brothers. ‘Little sister, let me salute you.’ He kissed my fingers in royal style, and then my cheeks. ‘This is a moment for rejoicing, not bitter words. I think we should search out the Queen, who will rejoice with me. It’s early, but why not? We’ll celebrate your union in good style with a toast of my finest Bordeaux. A better way to spend a cold morning than letters from Burgundy detailing the perfidy of King Louis.’

Thus my wedding feast.

Richard solidly protective, watchful, Clarence broodingly silent, bad-temperedly glowering. He wasn’t a hunting cat at all, I decided, watching him toss back yet another cup of wine, disillusion permanently etched. He was as sleek and grossly unpleasant as an elver for all his beauty. I never did like elvers, even when stewed to perfection with milk and saffron. And then there was Edward, hearty, enthusiastic, but falsely so, I thought. He laughed too loudly and too long, drinking the rich red wine as if it were small beer. The Queen managed to be caustically welcoming despite her astonishment at being summoned to preside over an uneasy celebration within her own rooms. She managed to rise to the occasion, even if
her hair was still unbound and her gown an informal bedchamber robe, yet could not resist a spiked aside that it had taken me long enough to act on her advice. But better late than never, and now I must be sure to hold tight to my royal bridegroom and make the most of my victory. I made a suitably equivocal answer, sensing that her own distaste for Clarence and a desire to see his defeat was far weightier with her than any good will towards me. All it needed, I decided as the cups of wine were raised, was a wretched Isabel to complete the family reunion.

And the Countess, of course. Her absence and Clarence’s callous condemnation lingered in the air as I smiled and answered the toasts in good heart.

‘A rare welcome to the heart of the family. I think we should leave,’ Richard finally whispered in my ear as he guided me towards the door to escort me to his own rooms in the palace, with a skill honed in extracting himself from tedious diplomatic receptions.

‘Why is Clarence so vindictive against my mother?’ I whispered back.

‘Hers is the inheritance,’ Richard explained simply. ‘And he wants it.’

‘I fear the King leans far towards Clarence.’ Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Edward raise his cup to his brother, the subject of the toast unknown but creating a crow of laughter between the pair of them.

‘Yes, he does.’ Richard followed the direction of my
eyes. ‘But not too far, I think, and only at this juncture. The rebellion amongst the Welsh lords has turned his mind to war again, and so to Clarence’s vacillating loyalties. We must simply encourage Edward to lean in our direction.’

Our escape was foiled.

‘A moment, Gloucester, before you leave us.’ As if reading our intention, the King raised his voice to bring us to a halt on the threshold. ‘And you, too, Clarence!’ Did Richard note the formality in the request, the snap of command? Edward was smiling no longer. I certainly did and shivered in the warm room at this sudden change in temperature.

‘I’ve had my bellyful of the ill will between the pair of you.’ The King’s stare moved from Gloucester to Clarence and back again, a critical appraisal showing no favouritism to either. ‘I will make a judgement on the Beauchamp-Despenser inheritance.’ Suddenly a slyness was there to coat the smooth words. ‘I have decided. You are both requested to appear before my Council next month. You will each summon your arguments and put them before myself and the worthy Councillors. And you will do so personally.’ The glance flicked towards Clarence was a warning that a man of law’s clever words and slick delivery would not be acceptable. ‘I will listen to you both. Then I will decide. My decision will be final. Do you accept that?’

‘I don’t see why…’ A whine in Clarence’s voice.

‘Nor do you have to,’ the King stated with biting authority. ‘It is my will.’

Worse for the heavy wine, Clarence crumbled under the weight of royal displeasure. ‘Very well. If I must.’

‘Gloucester?’

‘I agree and will abide by your decision,’ Richard replied promptly.

‘So be it.’ Satisfied, the King returned to the wine and the good humour.

I could barely wait until the door had closed behind us. ‘You said you would abide by his decision. What if it goes against us?’

‘I must be sure that mine is the stronger argument, mustn’t I?’

I looked up at his mildly thoughtful expression. For the hundredth time I wished I knew what was behind it. ‘You didn’t tell him—that I was carrying your child.’

‘No, I didn’t, did I?’

I would have my wedding night at last, in the privacy of Richard’s cramped accommodations at Westminster. I could not imagine any greater comparison as I stepped into his arms. No ceremony. No bawdy jokes. No priest to bless the bed. Nor was I a shivering virgin bride. The touch of Richard’s hands, his mouth, his body, his knowledge of all my secrets, was a thing of wonder and pleasure. In this room, this damask-hung bed, we could pretend to be two private individuals
with no one to answer to but ourselves and the demands of our own bodies.

Velvet brushed and caught against velvet, silk against silk. Heated flesh slid against heated flesh. Richard possessed me, filled me, made me his own, whilst I surrounded him, tormented him, so that for a little while he could lay aside his ambitions, that masterful control of his emotions that I had recognised and challenged all those years ago at Middleham. It pleased me that Richard could forget himself in what I could give him.

But he never forgot me. Richard had a way with words, even under extreme provocation from my lips and fingertips. I was his treasure, his jewelled prize.

A sweetness engulfed me, that obliterated all my doubts.

I received a letter from my mother.

It was the first, at least the first to reach me, since my capture at Tewkesbury. I knew that the Countess had spent much time in writing letters of petition, to anyone who might have influence with the King—to Clarence, to Queen Elizabeth, to Edward’s mother and sister, to anyone who could persuade the King to look kindly on her present situation. I had read some of them penned by a clerk in my mother’s name to Isabel. But she had not written to me, knee deep as I was in Lancastrian treachery, even though by circumstance
rather than by inclination, presuming that I would have no influence with King Edward. But times had changed. If she knew of my marriage, the Countess would see the opening of an opportunity.

The letter was in her own hand, her own words. This was no formal request in the dry words of a clerk at Beaulieu and it tore at my emotions as none of Isabel’s correspondence had.

My dearest Anne,

The news of your good fortune brings me some measure of peace. My heart is glad for you. Perhaps it was meant that you should wed Richard Plantagenet. He always had a care and affection for you. Happiness in marriage can be a great solace, as I know. I miss your father more than I can express. Warwick’s death was—and is—a great loss to me. I cannot write it.

Gloucester has the King’s ear and so I would cast myself on your mercy. If you have any influence over your husband in these first days of marriage, I would beg you to use them. I yearn for release from this place that was once my sanctuary from imprisonment and death, and now has become my prison.

Am I to remain here for ever? Are my possessions and property to be stripped from me? I am forgotten, discounted, locked away from the
world, when all must know that I am entitled to the jointure settled on me at the time of my marriage. Is not every widow entitled to at least that?

Your sister Isabel continues to be under the hand of Clarence, who has no thought to my comfort. She has done nothing for me. I beg of you to use your influence with Gloucester, and thus with the King. I am no threat to Edward’s crown. Edward saw fit to pardon you. Why should he cavil at pardoning me? All I ask is the freedom to travel unmolested to London, a safe conduct, to plead my case before the King.

I beg of you, I exhort you to use your skills of persuasion on my behalf. Time hangs heavy on my hands and I have no consolation but prayer.

Your loving mother,

Anne, Countess of Warwick

It hurt me to read this sad letter, a physical pain that gripped and would not let me rest. The pride was there, the determination to demand what was hers by legal right, but what depths of grief and loneliness were contained in the few short lines. The Countess might hold fast to her inner strength. I could sense it in the reluctance with which she begged for my intervention. Yet, alone and friendless, she must be worn down. I wept over the document until the words were blotched and difficult to read. The utter hopelessness
there, the cruel understanding of what was to be her fate.

Heavy-hearted, reluctant, I began to make my reply.

My dear mother,

It pleases me to hear from you, although your low spirits cause me sorrow. I am in good health and Margery cares for me as you would wish her to. It might bring you some consolation to know that I carry Gloucester’s child.

Nothing is yet decided over the inheritance or about your future. Edward is still in debate, but I—and Gloucester—will do what we can…

I came to a halt, to read over the lines. Stilted, disjointed, what a terrible letter it was, when I loved her so much and would wish to give her hope. I could give her none at all.

‘What should I tell her?’ I asked Richard when I showed him the Countess’s letter.

‘The truth isn’t palatable.’

‘No.’

She would remain at Beaulieu for ever if Clarence had his way.

‘If she is free,’ Richard confirmed my thoughts, ‘she has power.’ Pulling up a stool, he sat beside me, taking the quill from my hand and rubbing at the ink that
marked my fingers as it invariably did when I wrote, grunting as the stains transferred to his own fingers. ‘And the Countess could well marry again. She is by no means beyond the age of remarriage. There are any number of men at Court who would consider her and her inheritance a prize worth winning.’

True. I watched him as he picked up my poor attempt at a reply. My mother had little more than forty years. Richard raised his brows at my scratchy efforts, as he put the letter down before me.

‘Shut away behind the walls of a convent,’ he continued, picking up on my mother’s unwritten fears, ‘the Countess is faceless and voiceless, conveniently forgotten by the world, with no one to speak for her.’

‘Whereas if she were free and at liberty to return to Court and to marry again, her fortunate husband would fight for her rights.’ I sighed at the brutal truth of it.

‘As I will fight for yours.’

‘So my mother’s freedom is the last thing Clarence wants.’ I gripped Richard’s sleeve to hold him still as he would have risen to his feet. ‘And you, Richard? What do you want?’ Richard sank back, hitched a shoulder, a little uneasy, but I would not release him. ‘Tell me the truth. Do you want her to remain in the convent? Is it not in your interests, too, that the Countess remain there?’

He did not like the question. I saw it in the clenching of his right hand around the mistreated quill. But
I knew he would not lie to me, however disturbing it might be. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘So, like Clarence, you would condemn her? Is that what you want?’

Abandoning the all-but-ruined quill at last, Richard turned the ring I had once given him on his little finger as he thought to soften the words. Even so the truth was hard, difficult. ‘If you press me—I want a settlement to the benefit of all, I suppose.’

‘At the expense of my mother?’

‘No, not at her expense. But neither can I stand idly by and let Clarence strip the whole parcel of her land and power for himself in the name of your sister. Nor would you want that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t. But to demean the Countess in such a manner is an affront to love and affection.’ So calm and reasoned his argument, but calm reasoning had no part in this vicious campaign against my mother. Sensing emotions building inside me, I clenched my fingers harder into the flesh of his forearm, even when he winced. ‘They would take all she has, everything, until she is destitute with no thought for her pride. Shall I be a party to it also? How can I condemn Isabel for her part in it if I seek my own portion at the Countess’s expense?’ The thought appalled me, that I should be guilty of the same greed as my sister. ‘Chivalry, in truth, is dead,’ I added bitterly.

‘Yet see this, Anne.’ Richard would not allow me to lose my sense of the whole. ‘If we do not engage in this war, you will forfeit all. Both you and the Countess. I will fight for your rights, but…’ He hesitated, then added carefully, choosing his words, ‘It may be that the Countess is the one to pay the heavy cost. It may be the only way.’ Now he stood, drawing me with him. ‘Most of all I want you not to be troubled. Your health is very precious to me.’