Anne O'Brien

by Virgin Widow (epub)

  Lady Beatrice was the only one to approach me through my long watches. ‘Come away, my lady. This will do you no good.’ She would have pulled me back into one of the parlours.

  ‘I cannot.’

  How wretched I was. Swept by dark terrors and a shattering loneliness. My world, the world I had known since I was a child, lay before me in pieces. The Earl was dead, Isabel and Clarence tied to Edward of York’s sleeve. And now my mother lost to me, perhaps dead also. Our castles and possessions in England were long gone. I was a penniless, landless petitioner, my Neville blood a curse, my future dependent on the charity of a woman who hated me and a husband at whose hands I increasingly feared violent recriminations.

  Black despair swamped me. In the confines of Cerne Abbey, my eyes were finally opened. Maturity hit me hard with the entirely adult acceptance that my father was not the hero I had always believed him. Do not all mortals have feet of clay? Where could I put the blame for the loss of all I loved and treasured? I knew the answer. My father, the Earl.

  It hurt so much. My heart wept, but in those bleak days I could not.

  What had made him so blind? What had driven him to risk all and challenge Edward of York? I knew that as well. Ambition. Overweening, driving ambition. When had the Nevilles not been ambitious? The Earl could not tolerate the rising Woodville star that threatened to eclipse his own shining glory as the King’s chief counsellor. I accepted now that the King had kept the hand of friendship open to my father, but the Earl had turned his shoulder. He would not share the royal patronage with his rivals. And so he had fought for reinstatement of Neville fortunes, whatever the cost, even if it meant bowing the knee to the detested Angevin Queen.

  As I watched for travellers on the road, I remembered the Earl’s simple explanation at Middleham that had convinced me as a child that King Edward was in the wrong. Now I turned the coin to see the reverse. I knew to what extremes ambition could drive a man. Did I not see it every day in the Prince, in the tempestuous energies that convinced him that he could not lose?

  Hollow with loneliness, I saw only the inevitability of our downfall from the moment Isabel had wed Clarence against Edward’s wishes, and I could place it nowhere but at the Earl’s feet. Sometimes in the dark sleepless hours bitterness choked me. He had destroyed us. He had used me to bind an impossible alliance. Would a loving father do that? In those hours I acknowledged that Edward Plantagenet was King and the Earl had no right to challenge him. To raise his sword against the anointed King at Barnet—perhaps he deserved death. The father I had adored had brought us all low.

  Then Neville pride took hold of me. My father had placed that crown on Edward Plantagenet’s head. Did the Earl then not deserve King Edward’s loyalty? Were the Nevilles to be tossed aside at the whim of Edward and his Woodville Queen? By God, they were not! I too was a Neville, in flesh and blood and bone. I would not be swept aside, but would fight for the recognition due to me.

  But who would stand for me?

  I swear my heart was broken and I lived in a bottomless well of agony. There was no way out for me.

  Until a travelling troop of jugglers and acrobats, making the most of the lull in hostilities, came to me.

  ‘She’s safe enough,’ their leader in scruffy but colourful motley announced when I was fetched to the gate.

  ‘Safe?’ The word formed a little centre of warmth in my icy soul. ‘Safe!’

  ‘The Countess landed at Southampton, lady.’ The travelling player thrust out his chest as if he performed before an audience. ‘She was travelling west, to join you, when she heard the news. Of Barnet. She took refuge in Beaulieu Abbey and says that she’ll not leave her sanctuary, having no faith in any man.’

  ‘Ha!’ Did I not know exactly how she felt? ‘Did she speak of the Earl?’

  ‘No, lady. She did not.’

  ‘How did she seem? Was she well?’ I wanted more, much more.

  The man wrinkled his forehead. ‘The Countess was herself, lady. But her eyes spoke of grief. I think she suffered. She fears that King Edward will take her prisoner and have his revenge on her.’

  I pressed a coin into the traveller’s hand and fled. In the Abbey I fell to my knees before the altar to give thanks for her safety. But there was no lessening of my sense of loss and desolation.

  ‘Why are you not here with me, to give me advice?’

  I railed against fate. I wanted to rant and weep, to tear the costly silk of my gown, to rend my veil and loose my hair with frenzied fingers. To call down curses on those who slew my father. Some outrageous action to honour the depths of my despair. Why must I behave well, when my heart was broken? Instead, I crouched on the floor and buried my face in my hands, for my future loomed with a terrible certainty, beating relentlessly in my brain.

  If Margaret had her way, I would be princess no longer, my unconsummated marriage annulled as quietly and rapidly as possible as she cast around for a more suitable candidate for her son. She need compromise no longer with the detested Neville alliance. I imagined the glee with which she would rid herself of me. How long would it take her to realise that Warwick’s death was not a tragedy after all?

  Not long, I acknowledged. She no longer asked me to read or entertain her. I had become an outcast. My isolation grew as each day passed.

  We left Cerne Abbas. Rather than the progress of a mighty force, sure of its success, the Prince’s army bore keener comparison with a frantic and ill-managed, illmatched hunt. We were the courageous stag, doomed despite the magnificence of its crown of antlers. Edward of York followed us, tracked us, spied on us through every moment of our advancement. Even I could sense the inevitable outcome. Eventually he would hunt us down, tear us to pieces without compunction, with all the fierce efficiency of a pack of hounds. I could almost hear the eager baying of the dogs. The prickle of cold fear touched my arms, my neck, as if they were already gathering their strength to pounce. My dreams of blood and death seemed like to come true sooner rather than late.

  I remember the days as one long burden of unseasonal heat, of thirst and filth and exhaustion. Of nameless towns that either welcomed or spurned our approach. We took to horseback, riding before the army to avoid the dust and turmoil of the passage of so many men. The saddles chafed and rubbed sore patches that wept and bled, but there could be no respite. Would we be forced to fight on some windswept heath? Would I meet my death in some wood as my father had done, surrounded and cut down?

  Yet through it all I felt the presence of ghosts at my shoulder, astonishingly comforting as if in truth flesh and blood. The Earl’s courage, grimly present in death. The Countess exuded warmth and love even in her living grief. In the darkest of days when I would have slid from my saddle to weep in the dust from the sheer punishing demands of the march, they stiffened my spine and I rode on without complaint. I was the perfect lady-in-waiting, answering the Queen’s every truculent need. With gritted teeth and pain-racked muscles I gave her no cause for reproach.

  And if I felt the presence of Richard too somewhere in the approaching army, a more tangible presence, for I knew that Edward of York had given him the glory of leading the van, if I felt his presence then that too was a strange manner of comfort.

  Finally, late in the day, we reached Tewkesbury where we could ford the River Severn, only to find that the Yorkist army that had hounded us had overtaken us. We were cornered. We had no choice but to fight. The stag must turn and face the hounds. I should have felt terror, but I think I was too exhausted to feel anything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE Queen’s household was accommodated at Glupshill Manor just south of the town, crowded together like rats in a basket before the terriers were set on them and wagers made. That night I dare say none of us slept. By daybreak I had risen—dressing was not difficult when I had taken off so few garments—and sought the silent solitude of the chapel where I sank to my knees in despair before the serene figure of the Virgin.

  ‘Blessed Virgin. For whom sha
ll I pray?’ How difficult it was. I named those I loved silently in my heart, praying for the Virgin’s intercession. Offered prayers for my father’s soul. As for the Prince…‘How can I pray for his victory?’ I whispered against my fingers.

  The benignly smiling expression did not change, the blue folds of her robe fell in seemly array over her compassionately outstretched arms; as if the direction of my thoughts had summoned his presence, the Prince’s voice interrupted from the door arch.

  ‘I have always known that I would win England back by the sword. Today I shall do it. Edward of York will be dead before the day is out. I want you to pray for me, for my victory.’ With a clatter of mailed feet, the Prince was looming over me. His eyes glowed with passionate fervour, fever-bright.

  Why not be honest? Why not voice the fears of many Lancastrians?

  ‘Edward!’ Rising from my knees to face him—I would not be intimidated—I deliberately used his name. ‘How can you be so certain? You have no experience of battle. They have more guns. They can blow our army from the field.’

  ‘I shall bring them down. Nothing will stop me! God will not allow me to lose.’ He leaned close. ‘Are you sent to me by the Devil, to undermine my confidence? Have you followed your sister in your mind to hope for my defeat?’

  ‘No, Edward, I have not,’ I snapped. ‘If I had treason in mind, I would have found a way to escape during the march. I would be with Isabel even now.’ His convictions were overpowering and beyond my changing.

  ‘When you see me again I shall hold the Crown of England in my hands. Do you wish me well?’

  ‘I would never wish you ill, my lord.’ It was the best I could do. ‘God keep you from harm, Edward.’

  Taking me by surprise, as I expect he intended, he leaned closer and brushed my cheek with his lips, a falsely affectionate gesture of farewell that set my nerves to jangling. I tried not to step back, but everything in me shrank from him, so I did. Nor could I keep my fear hidden from my eyes as I watched him, a vole beneath the talons of a hawk. And Edward, hawk-like, pounced, raised his hand to curl around my throat, at first a light-fingered stroke, but one that quickly firmed into a disconcerting pressure. In that moment he was all malice, eyes gleaming with the all-too-familiar blood lust. I stiffened under his hands. The bruising on my cheek might have faded as if it had never existed, but I would never forget the manner of its inflicting. What did he intend now?

  ‘Gloucester is with the army,’ the Prince purred, the pads of his fingers increasing their pressure. ‘He commands the west wing. I suppose you know that. I shall enjoy killing him, you know. I shall bring his head back to lay at your feet.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Disgust shook me, but I kept my eyes steady on his. Don’t show fear. Don’t allow him any hold over you. He will feed on your weakness if he sees the panic in your face.

  ‘Because then I will have no rivals for your loyalties, my dearest wife.’ Palm hot on my throat, damp with excitement, fingers pressing harder, his lips were a breath away from mine. ‘Even your admiration. How should I not want a Neville to admire me? Perhaps you will even grow to love me.’

  ‘You will do as you must,’ I whispered, nauseated by his closeness, his implications.

  Rigid as the statue of the Virgin I tolerated the strengthening pressure. Not once did I allow my gaze to drop before his, forcing the contact to remain true. For a second his fingers tightened further against me, the edges of those finely pared nails digging in, then just as quickly withdrew as he allowed them to trail down lightly, seductively, over my breast. A lover’s gesture, yet in his eyes I saw a kind of loathing for me and all I stood for. Not a hawk at all, I thought inconsequentially. A cat tormenting a helpless mouse, still alive between its teeth.

  I shivered in horror. I couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Treacherous whore!’ he whispered against my hair, as if it were an endearment, and took my mouth with his. Brutally savage, his teeth nipped and scraped, his tongue possessed, even more vicious than on our abortive wedding night. He held me strongly when I struggled, pushing futilely with my hands against his chest. ‘Do you wish me well in this battle, virgin wife?’ he muttered. ‘Do you wish me well when I hunt Gloucester down?’

  Not requiring an answer—and before God I could not offer one—Edward thrust me away, hard enough so that I stumbled against the altar steps to keep my balance. I knew he hated me and would destroy me if he could.

  ‘Do you send me to battle with a prayer for my victory?’ he demanded.

  How could I? ‘You will do what you will, Edward, but you’ll not get my blessing if you’ve vengeance in mind.’

  ‘I shall be King with or without your blessing!’ he snarled.

  Unwise to strip my feelings so naked, I knew I would pay for my ill-considered reply, but wish him well? Never! As Edward strode from the chapel to lead his army against Edward of York, my heart was as heavy as stone.

  A defeat! An utter rout!

  The news came to us before the end of the day. There was blood on the messenger’s clothes. The Queen insisted on every detail so that she would know the whole. We stood to either side of her as if we would protect her, but we could not shield her from this. We shared the grief that stunned us all. The Lancastrian army put to flight with over two thousand men fallen. A complete rout. All the Queen’s bright convictions destroyed on the battle field.

  The Prince, the glorious hope of Lancaster, was dead.

  My husband was dead.

  The disaster, the whole bloody detail of it, was laid out before us as the Queen demanded the repetition of the facts over and over again. Looked around as if she could not quite bring her surroundings to mind, before crumbling before our eyes, almost senseless, sinking to the floor. Never had I seen Margaret of Anjou cast aside her innate dignity, but now she lay on the tiles, her skirts in the dust as harsh sobs racked her.

  The messenger stepped back, the ladies surrounded her, hands and veils fluttering, panic building in the room as the Queen’s authority drained away with her tears. I simply stood, hardly able to absorb what I had just heard, burying my emotions deep. Not so much the Prince’s death—I could do nothing but admit to a wash of intense relief—but the manner of it. The perpetrator of it, as described to us without sentiment at Margaret’s insistence. I forced myself to concentrate purely on the immediate dangers, and discovered within me the ability to take charge when crisis loomed.

  I dared do no other, fearing that I too would shatter.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ I went to her, pushing aside the ineffective women, knelt beside her and simply held her as she rocked and moaned her loss, all but unconscious. I had not seen such terrible grief. How frail her slight frame felt, worn down through the months of strain, her skin stretched taut over her bones beneath the layers of her gown. She clung to me with claw-like fingers.

  ‘All is lost. My son is dead. How I have been punished.’ Her tears soaked into my shoulder.

  ‘We cannot stay here,’ I urged. ‘We must escape…You must not be taken prisoner.’ At first my words failed to slice through her grief. ‘You must go from here, your Majesty,’ I repeated, shaking her a little so that she would look at me.

  ‘Where shall I go?’ she asked in hopeless despair.

  I had no idea. I turned my head, raised my brows at the messenger who still stood uncertainly beside the door.

  ‘There’s a family nearby, my lady.’ He spoke to me. ‘At Payne’s Place. They’ll hide you, at least for tonight. Until the worst is over…’

  ‘No. No. I must remain…’ Margaret looked wildly round the room, pushing away my supporting hands. ‘I cannot leave here.’ As if her son was not truly dead, but would return to her before night fell.

  But I had taken the messenger’s meaning. ‘The Yorkist blood is up, your Majesty. They’ll have no respect for your rank if you fall into their clutches.’ I grasped her hands to fix her wayward attention again. ‘It’s not wise to stay.’

  The Queen frowned at
me, still prepared to dissent.

  ‘The lady speaks the truth, your Majesty,’ the messenger confirmed, anxiety showing. ‘A bloodbath out there, and will be worse before it’s better.’

  The Queen closed her eyes for a long moment. ‘I hear you.’

  The messenger took us to Payne’s Place, secreted in a little valley some few miles distant, where we put the Queen to bed. No more tears. No more words, until she lay rigidly between the linen sheets eyes staring blindly at the silk tester. They were spoken to me.

  ‘I don’t want you with me. I don’t want you near me.’

  I knew why. I could not blame her. We both knew from the messenger’s telling who had killed the Prince, whose hand had wielded the dagger that pierced his heart.

  Whether she slept I knew not. To my surprise, considering that my bed was a pallet on the floor in an unused and dusty chamber, I did, but tumbled headfirst into the dream that was no dream.

  I stood in Tewkesbury Abbey, beside one of the heavy pillars of the nave, a cloak falling straight from shoulder to floor, a deep hood hiding my face. At the centre stood a small group of men. If I had stretched out my hand I could have touched any one of them, but they paid me no heed. All showed signs of the recent battle, still wearing some remnants of armour, still smeared with dust and sweat and blood. There was the reek of death about them. Of danger. They had come straight here from the battlefield.

  There was Edward of York, King Edward. He had removed his helm with its gold circlet and dropped it against the rood screen. His tabard blazed with the Sun in Splendour despite the gloom that hemmed us in. With him was Clarence, sword still in hand. And Gloucester. My Richard. Feet firmly planted, legs braced, he made up the trio of royal brothers, no less impressive for the coating of muck and gore from a hard fight. His eyes were hard, gleaming like obsidian, his face lined and weary. His hands where rings glinted were clasped on his sword belt.