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.’
Without further words or any courtesy he turned his back and leapt up the stairs two at a time. He kept his distance and his silence on the matter for the rest of the visit, whilst I was left to consider the strains that could tear a family apart so, where ambition and personal hatreds could replace compassion and affection that were at the heart of my own experience. I would hate it too if my family was as wrenched apart as Richard’s.
My childhood passed in an even seam with Richard a constant. Our paths crossed as those in an extended family must. At prayers in our chapel. At dinner in the Great Hall and the supper at the end of the day. Through the rains and snows of winter, the days that beckoned us outside in summer. But nothing of note happened between us. His time was demanded by the Master of Henchmen, mine by Lady Masham and the Countess.
As I grew I spied on Richard less often. Perhaps I was more self-conscious of my status in the household. Neville heiresses did not skulk and spy as a child might. But I knew that he learned to wield a sword with skill, that his talent with a light bow was praiseworthy, that he could couch a lance in the tilting yard to hit the quintain foursquare and ride to safety and not be thwacked for carelessness between the shoulder blades or on the side of the head by the revolving bag of sand. He was spread-eagled in the dirt less often.
I applied myself to my lessons. It was the Countess’s wish that her daughters learn to read and write as any cultured family would, and so we did. Mastering the skill, I read the tales of King Arthur and his knights with sighing pleasure. I wept over the doomed lovers Tristram and Isolde. Sir Lancelot of the Lake and his forbidden love for Guinevere warmed my romantic heart. The painted illustration in the precious book showed Guinevere to have long golden hair, too much like Isabel for my taste. And Lancelot was tall and broad with golden hair to his shoulders as he stood in heroic pose with sword in hand and a smile for his lady. Nothing like Richard, who would never be fair and broad and scowled more often than he smiled. But I could dream and I did.
I r
ecall little in detail of all those days, until the momentous day of the marriage proposal, except for the Twelfth Night celebrations. After the processions, the festive feast with the boar’s head and the outrageous pranks of the Lord of Misrule, we exchanged gifts. I still have the one that Richard gave me. It has travelled with me into exile, into un-numbered dangers from imminent battle, and finally into captivity. I have never seen its like and would be dismayed if it were ever lost to me. Richard must have bought it from a travelling peddler when he had visited York. On its presentation I tore impatiently at the leather wrapping.
‘Oh! Oh, Richard!’
I laughed at the childish whimsy of it. Not of any intrinsic value, yet it was cunningly contrived of metal, a little hollow bird that would sit in the palm of my hand, plump and charming, its beak agape like a fledgling, its feathers well marked on the tiny wings that were arched on its back. When I moved the little lever on the side, the bird’s tongue waggled back and forth. When I blew across the hollow tail, it emitted a warbling whistle. I practised to everyone’s amusement.
‘Richard. Thank you.’ I was lost for words, but I made the appropriate curtsy, lifting my new damask skirts and much prized silken underskirt with some semblance of elegance.
He flushed. Bowed in reply with more flamboyance than I had previously seen. Kissed my fingers as if I were a great lady. His lessons in chivalry had gone on apace.
‘It is my pleasure. The little bird is charming, as are you, Cousin Anne.’
When he drew me to my full height and kissed my cheeks, one and then the other, and then my lips in cousinly greeting, I felt hot and cold at the same time, my face flushed with bright colour. Francis Lovell’s friendly salutes never had that effect on me.
I think it was then, with the imprint of Richard’s kiss on my astonished lips, that I determined, with true Neville arrogance, that I would have him as my own. No other girl would have him, I swore silently with one of the Earl’s more colourful oaths. Richard, I wager, felt no such significance in his gift from me. He was more taken up with the horse-harness the Earl had given him, an outrageously flamboyant affair, all polished leather with enamel and gilded fittings.
And what did I give to Richard Plantagenet? What would I, a ten-year-old girl, give to a prince who had everything, whose brother was King of England? With many doubts and some maternal advice I plied a needle. My mother said it would be good practice and Richard would be too kind to refuse my offering, however it turned out. I scowled at the implication, but stitched industriously. I stitched through the autumn months when the days grew short and I had to squint in candlelight to make for him an undershirt in fine linen, to fit under a light metal-and-velvet brigandine that was a present from his brother and his favourite garment. A mundane choice of gift from me, but I turned it into an object of fantasy by embroidering Richard’s heraldic motifs on the breast in silk thread and a few leftover strands of gold. A white rose for the house of York. The Sun in Splendour that his brother had adopted for the Yorkist emblem after the battle of Mortimer’s Cross when the miracle of the three suns appeared together in the heavens. And for Richard himself, his own device of a white boar. I was not displeased with the result. The rays of the sun were haphazard. Isabel scoffed that the boar had more of a resemblance to the sheep on the hills beyond Middleham. But my mother declared it more than passable and I presented it with all the pride of my hard labours.
Richard accepted it as if it were the most costly garment from the fashion-conscious Court of Burgundy. He did not remark on the less-than-even stitches as Isabel had. Nor did he laugh at my woeful depiction of the boar.
‘It is exactly what I could wish for.’
I blushed with pride. I know he wore it, even when much washed and frayed at cuff and neck and most of the embroidery long gone.
I might have decided that I wanted Richard Plantagenet, but I did not love him. Sometimes I hated him, and he me with equal virulence, although much of the tension between us was of my own making. As I grew I struggled with conflicting emotions that drove me to be capricious with him.
Richard and his horse had fallen heavily in a bout in the tilt yard and, mount limping, he had been dispatched to the stables. I had been looking for someone to annoy and here, on that particular morning, was the perfect target. I had no pity. He was dishevelled and sweaty, one sleeve of his leather jacket ripped almost away at the shoulder seam. Favouring one shoulder with a heavy wince of pain, he hissed between his teeth as he moved and stretched about his task. There was a raw graze along one cheekbone; his hair looked as if it had not seen a comb for days. In the dusty gloom of the stall he spoke with soft words to the restive horse, running his hand down a foreleg. Beside him on a bench was the makings of a hot poultice, steaming and aromatic, and a roll of stalwart bandaging. The horse shifted uneasily. I could see the white of its eye as it whickered and jibbed when Richard touched a sore spot. With long strokes, completely absorbed in his task so that he was unaware of my presence, he began to apply the hot mess, the remedy for all equine ills according to Master Sutton, the Earl’s head groom. He worked smoothly, gently, despite his own discomfort. I saw that his horse’s well-being came before his own ills, but I was not in the mood to admit to being impressed. I came to stand behind him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘As you see.’
He did not turn his head, or register my presence in any other way, and the answer did not please me. It had been a bad morning and I was in disgrace. Out of sorts since the moment I was roused from my bed, I was sullen and dull at my lessons. So I had to repeat them, but was even more uncooperative when Isabel had been released to freedom. Since Lady Masham had obviously prattled to my mother about my sins, the Countess sent me to the kitchens as punishment, to help in the making of candles for the household use. It was a fit task for a child who would not mind her lessons and was rude to her governess. Some practical work would soon set me to rights.
Isabel smirked. Francis Lovell laughed and refused to commiserate so, fingers burnt from hot tallow and a further sharp reprimand from the cook for my careless dipping of the long candles, I suppose I was out for blood at the short reply from Richard Plantagenet. I did not like to be ignored. I needed to wound and hurt.
‘Did you fall?’
‘Go away.’
I was not used to being spoken to like this, particularly not by a henchman, Duke of Gloucester, royal prince or not. ‘I will not. These are more my stables than yours! I suppose you were clumsy and caused the horse to fall.’
He looked up over his shoulder at me. Squinted at me as I stood outlined by light in the doorway. Then back to the task in hand. ‘I suppose I was.’
I had seen the pain and anxiety in his face, but I was not moved to show compassion. Why should I be the only occupant of the castle to suffer? ‘It will probably be crippled, poor thing. Not worth the keeping.’
‘It’s only a bad sprain. It will heal.’
‘It could be broken. See how the animal does not wish to put its foot down. My father has had horses destroyed for less.’
‘What do you know? Go away. You’re nothing but a nuisance.’
‘And you are changeling!’ Isabel was not the only one to listen to servants’ gossip. I had a ready store of disreputable information and, to my later shame, chose this moment to display it.
For a little time, to my disappointment, Richard did not react. He finished strapping the leg, tucked in the ends neatly, before straightening whilst I waited in the taut silence. As he drew himself to his full height I had to look up. I had not realised how tall he had grown over the weeks since his fourteenth birthday. His expression was not pleasant, his cheekbones stark beneath tight skin, and his dark eyes held mine as fierce as the talons of a hawk would hold down a rabbit before ripping it apart.
‘What did you say?’
I swallowed, but would not retreat even though common sense warned me that I should. Now I had all his attention, for good or ill.
I stared back.
‘They say that you’re a changeling. That yours was an unnatural birth. That you came into this world with black hair to your shoulders, like an animal, and all your teeth already formed.’
‘Is that all?’ Undoubtedly a sneer. ‘What else do they say?’
I swallowed. Well, I would say it. ‘That you’re not well formed as a man should be. That you’ll never take to the field as a good soldier.’
‘And am I? You tell me what gossip says. What do you say?’
At the stern demand for truth rather than conjecture, I could not answer.
‘Why do you not answer? What do you see, Lady Anne Neville, from your self-righteous and selfappointed position of spreader of poisonous gossip? Am I such a monstrosity?’
I kept my chin high. ‘No.’
‘Why should I be a changeling?’ he demanded as if he had not heard my denial. ‘Because I do not bear the same physical appearance as my brother the King? The long bones and fair hair, like my brother Clarence or my sister the Lady Margaret? My dark hair is from the Neville breeding of my mother, Duchess Cecily. As for teeth I do not know, but I’m neither misbegotten nor a changeling.’
So he had heard the gossip too. Of course he would. And my repeating of it as an accusation had hurt him when his emotions were most compromised by his horse’s injury. I was undoubtedly in the wrong. The guilt smote heavily against my insensitive heart, a hammer blow to an anvil.
‘I did not think—’
‘No, you did not.’ There was no softening, and it struck me that he would be a dangerous enemy to have against you. Usually polite beyond measure, now he did not guard his words. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself to so slander a guest in your household. I think your mother the Countess would beat you if she knew.’
So did I.
‘I did not mean—’
‘Yes, you did. You would repeat what you heard, common tattle without foundation, as any kitchen wench might after a cup of ale. You’re no better than any one of our Lancastrian enemies who would use whatever means to blacken our name.’
Anne O'Brien Page 4