‘Yes, my lady. In the nave.’
‘In King Edward’s presence?’
‘Yes. The King and his brothers. There was an argument.’
So the messenger’s tale had been true. I would ask, even though I did not want to hear the answer. ‘Was he killed by the Duke of Gloucester’s hand?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
A rustle of noise sounded behind us in the transept. Beatrice gasped aloud.
‘The birds. They get in too.’ The monk smiled wanly. ‘But you must not stay.’
‘No. I must return to the Queen.’ If nothing other, I must tell her what I had found, what I had done. From my sleeve I took the bag of gold I had brought for such an occasion. I knew what must be done and what better place? ‘Keep him safe, until law has returned to the town, T instructed, pressing the leather bag into the monk’s hand. ‘I want the Prince buried in the monks’ choir, in the very centre, so that all shall see it when they enter the church. As for a monument to his life…’ I could not think. Not yet. Perhaps it would be best not to draw attention to his final resting place. ‘I will return and arrange that—when the future is clearer. And Masses for his soul. I want Mass said daily.’
The birds fluttered again, making my heart trip uncomfortably against my ribs. I knew we must go. For one final time I touched the Prince’s hand, cold as the stone beneath my feet. So much wasted life, so much promise spoilt by driving ambition and his mother’s careless nurturing. On impulse I leaned down and touched my lips to his forehead. Not in compassion, but as a token of an ending between us. It was the first time I had kissed Edward of Lancaster of my own volition since the chaste caress of my marriage day in Angers Cathedral.
‘Take care of him.’
‘We will, my lady.’
We left the Lady Chapel to retrace our steps, my thoughts inward and dreary. Now that I had fulfilled my immediate duties to the dead, I could see nothing of the future for me other than as a permanent fugitive. An exile at the French Court. Or as a prisoner of Ybrk. I knew the Tower of London in happier times, had enjoyed its hospitality, but I had no wish to live out my days incarcerated there in cushioned captivity. I had no wish to be a prisoner at all.
‘Lady! Beware!’ the monk hissed in my ear. A commotion at the main door. A blast of cold air. Footsteps, determined and confident, but leisurely enough. One man, alone, and not on the hunt. The panic that had immediately flared into life settled into a dull simmer.
‘This way!’ The monk physically pushed us into the magnificent chantry chapel of my Despenser grandmother with its elegant pillars and fan vaulting, to the side of the High Altar where we could crouch out of sight of the nave, then left us to our fate.
‘The King!’ Beatrice breathed against my ear. ‘Will he see us?’
I shook my head. I dare not speak as, unaware of his audience, King Edward strode to the rail before the altar. Unbuckling his sword, he knelt there, head bowed, the light from the solitary pair of candles highlighting his golden hair.
‘Almighty God be praised for this victory.’ His voice, soft enough, carried easily in the empty spaces. ‘I swear this will be the last battle to tear Englishmen apart, to spill English blood on English soil. I will place my sword here as a symbol of my intent.’ He continued to kneel, eyes fixed on the cross as if he would determine the future there.
And I recalled another starkly different dedication, when the Prince, all for show, for personal aggrandisement, had sworn his enmity and desire for blood. This was a quiet moment, a personal dedication between King and God, for no man’s consumption. Then, the Prince had used his vow to vilify his enemies, my father who had given his life for him. I shook with useless anger, until there came the echo of the heavy latch on the outer door, more footsteps. Breathless, unmoving, we peered through the spaces in the carving, straining to see through the intricate stonework. But I knew who it was even before I saw his figure, his face. After all these years I sensed him.
Richard!
I think I was shocked more than any other emotion. I had not thought to see him here, could never have envisaged seeing him again in such a situation as this. It stole my breath at the same time as awareness raced through my blood. I could only take a distant impression of him as the brothers stood together in the chancel, but it was enough. They spoke, believing themselves to be alone. I would have recognised Richard’s voice anywhere. Assured, the hint of a sharp edge, used to issuing orders and being obeyed.
‘Is it done?’ the King asked.
‘Yes. All executed.’
Here was a man, not a boy, not a youth as my memory prompted me, a man who carried himself with experience, confidence. Here was a soldier, hardened and bloodied in battle, transformed over the months of conflict and exile into a royal counsellor who wore his power as comfortably as the embroidered gloves I had snatched from him.
‘A nasty business, but necessary.’ Edward looked round him at the empty niches from which statues had been dragged and shattered to pieces in a frenzy of destruction. At the absence of silver and gold except for the cross on the High Altar. ‘Now we’ll see to the restoring of this place.’ He grimaced down at the floor beneath his feet. I could imagine what horrors might still lie there. ‘It needs to be cleaned if nothing else. Get the Bishop of Worcester here, Richard. Then we’ll arrange the burial of the Lancastrian lords. Traitors they might be, misguided and weak, but they fought bravely. They deserve honourable burial.’
Richard followed his brother’s gaze. ‘Our troops behave like animals. It brings shame on us.’
‘Difficult to blame them.’ The King shrugged. ‘We use them, we supply them with ale until their courage will carry them against death and mutilation. We can’t damn them for the consequences. It is a price to pay. Victorious armies expect some reward.’
‘Too much,’ Richard replied. ‘Enough is enough. The indiscriminate killing must stop. I’ve given orders to our commanders.’ He waited as Edward bowed his head before the altar a final time. Whilst my breath eased. Soon our danger would be over. ‘What now?’ Richard asked as the King moved to walk with him.
‘Margaret. I need to find her. She’s too dangerous to leave at large.’
I stiffened.
‘She’s fled the town,’ Richard advised.
‘Then we find her. My scouts are out and she can’t have gone far.’ Edward took Richard’s arm in companionable mood. Even at a distance I saw the King’s face light with a glow of triumph and a sudden thought. ‘I was thinking.’ The smile became a little sly. ‘Margaret has Anne Neville with her.’
I smothered a gasp behind rigid fingers.
‘True,’ Richard agreed.
‘Anne Neville is now unwed.’
‘Also true.’
‘And her mother’s heiress. Have you an interest there?’
Richard tilted his head as if giving it some thought. Clearly Yes was not springing to his mind. The blood that had run so hot at my awareness of him now ran cold and sluggish to the tips of my fingers, to my toes. To be considered so cold-bloodedly by the man I had thought to love until death. By the man who I thought loved me.
‘She would be a wealthy bride, Dickon,’ pursued Edward in the face of his brother’s silence. ‘If her mother was attainted, she would come into her inheritance now. Do you want her? You could look higher, of course. Mary of Burgundy is still un-betrothed.’
‘Higher than a Neville?’ Richard smiled sardonically. ‘Is it possible?’ Suddenly he looked up, around.
‘What?’ Edward asked.
‘Nothing. Just ghosts, perhaps.’
‘Or roosting pigeons. So? Anne Neville? What about her?’ Edward repeated. ‘If she falls into my hands I must find a husband for her somewhere, and you were willing enough to take her when Warwick was my man. In truth, she’s too valuable to allow to fall into the wrong hands. Some would call her traitor and deal with her as such…’
Traitor? I waited, my breath held. And I thought Richard would reply. S
urely he would want me, argue my cause. Then more footsteps brought Clarence in haste to create the three-cornered unity of royal brothers.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, looking from one to the other, suspiciously. ‘Some deep policy?’
‘Nothing of importance. Just the disposition of Anne Neville.’ Richard cast it aside as if it were a matter not worthy of his concern. ‘I’ll think about it, Edward. When all this is over, perhaps.’
Disposition of Anne Neville! He would think about it! When he had time! I was mortified, furious, emotions storming through me, almost pushing me to my feet to stand before him and demand an explanation. Only Beatrice’s restraining grasp on my cloak stopped me. Was this the man who had promised me his undying love? How dare he discuss me so dispassionately? At the same time I longed to go to him, to risk everything, to put myself under his keeping. But his cold words kept me behind the clusters of stone-carved foliage as they moved off down the nave. You are now free to go to Gloucester, a vengeful Margaret had accused in my dream. If I did, I had no guarantee that I would be welcome.
‘Gloucester has a presence,’ Beatrice murmured.
He had indeed! Not one I appreciated! I felt her eyes searching my face.
‘Yes, I suppose he has. He is Constable of England, after all.’
‘He thinks of you as a future wife.’
‘Do you think? It seemed to me that he was quite undecided as to the suitability of my person for a Prince of the Blood!’
We were silent as, at a distance, we followed the royal trio to the west door.
‘Will he execute the Queen?’ Beatrice asked since it was clear that I would not rise further to her comment. ‘As he has the rest of the Lancastrian commanders?’
‘The King or Gloucester?’ I asked through clenched teeth.
‘Both. Either.’
‘Who knows? All I know is that there’s treachery at the heart of the damned Yorkists.’
And I was not speaking of the King. Or of politics!
We rode out of Tewkesbury, tension thick between us. Beatrice would have buried me in questions, but my few short answers shut her up so that she paced behind me with a silence as surly as Sim’s. I didn’t care. There was little I did care for on that silent journey. At last we rode through the gates, into the stable yard.
It was chillingly quiet.
‘Where’s the Queen?’ I demanded when our host came out to meet us before we could dismount. I knew why before I saw the relief in his face.
‘Gone. Yorkist scouts have been seen in the area. I sent her to the priory at Little Malvern…’
By the Virgin! A longer journey was the last thing I wanted. Turning my weary horse, I acknowledged that this was to be our destiny passed from hand to hand, from one fearful house to another. Even though my belly clutched at the unpalatable thought I knew that we must get the Queen to the coast and back to France. On the turn of a coin we had become outcasts, as untouchable as a leper with his bell in the market place.
Why had I not stepped forwards from the chantry to beg pardon for the role I had been forced to play? Why had I not cast myself on Richard’s mercy, drawing on all that was between us in the past?
Do you not love him?
Yes. An easy question and an easier answer.
So do you suspect that he does not love you?
Here was the crux of it. I didn’t know any longer. All was a muddle in my head. So cold, so calculating as he was in his reply to Edward with no urgency or desire to reclaim me, even when I was offered. Would he take me just because of my wealth? If he could find no one better? He had actually mocked my Neville blood. Yet he had loved me once…
It is possible for love to die. He may no longer have feelings for you.
But why would it die?
Because you are a traitor, daughter of a traitor.
I could not argue against it. If I threw myself at Richard’s feet, and if he would not forgive, I would be shut up in the Tower before I could blink.
Or married off to tie a man—any man—to York’s crown.
Edward’s own careless words came back to me. I was too valuable to be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.
If Richard wed you, would you ever know his motivation? Wealth and power—your mother’s inheritance—is always more important than love.
No! And then an even nastier little worm ate through the apple…
Would you wish to ally yourself to such a man? He has blood on his hands. The knife that killed the Prince was in Richard’s hand. How can you excuse that?
‘Well!’ Beatrice eyed me askance as I swore aloud. ‘You’ve been poor company.’
I hitched a shoulder. I knew it. And I was no nearer to the truth.
I was exhausted by the time Little Malvern Priory came into view, a poor foundation, the retreat of a handful of ageing monks hidden away in deep woods in a quiet valley beneath a range of hills. It would offer little in the way of material comfort, but it would at least provide refuge until we could plan our escape.
My timing was impeccable.
It could not have been worse!
Hardly had I arrived, to be brought into the cold austerity of the parlour set aside for travellers, hardly had I braced myself to answer for my absence to the Queen, and been relieved that she had taken herself to bed, than there was a thunderous hammering at the door. It was dark now and the monk was reluctant to open again. With sharp premonition I accompanied him to stand at his side.
‘Who is it who asks for hospitality?’ his old voice quavered.
‘Sir William Stanley. Here on royal business.’
My heart sank to the region of my sodden shoes. I knew that name. A man of dubious loyalties who had, for the time, thrown in his lot with the Yorkists. I shook my head when the monk glanced at me.
‘It is late, sir. The brothers have retired.’
‘Open in the name of King Edward. Open the doors!’
‘We can offer no hospitality, sir.’
But I knew the door must be opened. Our luck had run out.
‘I have reason to believe that the Angevin woman is here. Open the doors, brother, and you will come to no harm.’ Sir William would not be put off.
I motioned for the monk to swing the door wide. Someone had betrayed us. As there had been no sanctuary for the Prince in the Abbey, so there was none for us. So there we were. Prisoners at the mercy of the King, to be escorted across the country at his will.
We would soon discover if such mercy existed at his hands.
Chapter Fourteen
KING Edward had us brought all the way from Tewkesbury to Coventry, to the royal accommodations where the King’s Council often met. What a desperate little party we were, I decided, seeing us through Yorkist eyes as we arrived. Weary, travel-stained, barely one speaking to the other—how the King could consider us a threat to his safety or the security of his crown I could not imagine. Despite that, the guard about us was strong. The Queen travelled in a litter, curtains closed against the world.
I rode in a black cloud of gloom, at odds with the spring weather, with the prospect of an axe over my neck as I dredged through my memories to piece together what sort of man the King was. Fair in his dealings, Edward had no reputation for blood-letting. If he could pardon Clarence, he could not be all bad. But my mind switched scenes. He had executed the Lancastrian officers without compunction. He had not saved Warwick at Barnet. He had not saved the Prince from being cut down in cold blood by Richard, his own brother.
So, how would he deal with me?
I had no one to stand for me and plead my cause. I had no confidence in Clarence, and the whereabouts of Isabel I did not know. As for Richard…Who knew what was in his head? I would have to plead my own case.
I shivered in the slight breeze.
Would you wilt and weep before Edward of York?
I straightened my spine as I rode. I would be honest and forthright. What had I to lose? I would disguise my fear and pray that the King was
of a mind to be kind to a traitor and widow of his most bitter enemy.
I was escorted by guards into Edward’s presence, where I came to an abrupt halt just within the door of a surprisingly intimate little parlour.
Thank God! Richard was not there. Clarence, yes, legs crossed, arm negligently thrown along the back of a low settle. No one would know how my knees trembled behind my skirts as I curtsied. Edward was lounging, legs extended, ankles crossed, but he immediately leapt to his feet and came forwards to take my hand, to draw me to a seat beside the fireplace. He did not look hostile. I tensed my muscles against sheer fright at the extent of this man’s power over me.
‘Lady Anne. Or should I address you as Princess? You have been greatly elevated since we last met.’ Edward sketched a mock bow. I searched his face to see if there was malice there. There was none that I could see, and when he sensed my resistance, Edward nudged me to sit in his own great chair, looking down at me, his hands clasped around his belt, his stance easy and relaxed. ‘I suppose I have to decide what to do with you. What do you think, Lady Anne?’
So, malice or mischief, he would cast the problem into my lap. I sat and concentrated furiously on my survival. King Edward held my life in his hands.
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ he repeated as if we were discussing the direction to take in a hunt. ‘You are branded Lancastrian. Your father and husband both bore arms against me and are dead, your mother has walled herself in so that she need not face my justice, and thus you are the only Neville traitor to fall into my hands. You are my enemy, little Princess. Now how should I deal with you?’
There was a decided twinkle in his eyes. They were warm and reassuring, the deep brown of ripe chestnuts. But I was wary. He might well be playing with me, lulling me to see if I had any knowledge of use to him. To allow me enough rope to hang myself. Or perhaps he simply considered me still to be too young to challenge him, the younger Neville daughter to be treated with condescension. Knowing that I dared not drop my guard, I decided that attack was the best defence. If he punished me, then so be it.
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