Anne O'Brien

by Virgin Widow (epub)

  ‘What advice can you give me? What do you care?’ My resentment flashed into life. ‘You hardly greeted me yesterday, hardly had a word to say to me. Had I had a safe and comfortable journey? No, I had not! Is that all you could say after twelve months or more? You looked at me as if I were a useful counter in a particularly nasty board game. Why should I now listen to your advice?’ I was not proud of my venom, but it eased the pain a little to hurt him as he had hurt me. And I saw the result immediately. It was as if I had slapped him, his face white and stark, but I was not sorry. He had hurt me. ‘It’s perfectly clear to me that any connection between us is at an end. Unless of course you have your mind solely on my inheritance.’ Remembering Tewkesbury, I drove the point home.

  If anything, his face paled even further, bone white.

  ‘Anne…I know what it looked like. But I dare not—’

  ‘Dare not what? It seems to me that you dare put your hand to anything, if what they say is true.’

  ‘What?’ His brows snapped together.

  ‘Did you not cut down my husband, unarmed and helpless and a prisoner, in cold blood?’ I faced him, the curl of a sneer on my mouth, daring him to deny it. Praying that he would.

  To my horror he did not. The bloom of anger surged into his face again like battle flags. Before I could step back, before I could read his intent, his hand gripped my wrist fiercely to hold me still. ‘There’s no time for this now. Too many ears, too many interests involved.’ His voice was little above a murmur, but the urgency had returned in good measure. ‘All I can say is don’t let them—’ He rapidly cut off his words, dropped my wrist.

  ‘Don’t let them what? Don’t let who?’

  Clarence loomed at my shoulder. ‘We are ready, Lady Anne.’ He acknowledged Gloucester, stiffly, I thought. ‘I’ll see you in London, Gloucester. Within the week.’

  ‘Don’t waste time,’ Gloucester advised briefly. ‘We shall need you if the revolt in Kent is as widespread as rumours say.’

  There it was again. Some antagonism that had nothing to do with common rivalry between brothers. I looked from one to the other, but could only see the shimmer of tension, like two full-grown stags on first sighting. Wary, watchful, but neither willing to take the first step towards outright aggression.

  Then it was broken. Clarence mounted and Gloucester took my hand to hand me into the litter.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘Once, in an earlier life, you called me Richard,’ he murmured as he tucked a cushion under my arm. The quick brush of humour almost destroyed me.

  Almost. I snatched my hand away. ‘Once I thought you loved me.’

  Which put an effective end to any further conversation.

  I had expressed a preference to ride, but I was given no choice, Clarence deeming it safer to escort an anonymous lady behind closed curtains rather than the Lancastrian widow for all to see. At least there was one advantage as I crossly pulled the drapes against the passing scenery. Complete privacy. As soon as we were on the road I opened my clenched fist. A screw of parchment, closely folded, that Richard had pressed into my palm. I smoothed it.

  You are of age and cannot be forced into any act against your will. Don’t let them persuade you to enter a convent.

  No superscription. No signature. No evidence of who or why if it was found by an unfriendly observer. I frowned at the two lines. Why would Isabel—why would anyone—try to persuade me to enter a convent? The curtains were twitched back.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ Smiling, Clarence bent from his horse.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘We shall soon be at Warwick. You will be welcomed there, back with your family.’ His handsome face was all concern for my well-being, all anticipation in my homecoming.

  What was he planning? There was something, but it remained undefined, shadowy yet undeniably present, like the rich pattern on a damask partially obscured beneath a layer of gauze. Accepting the futility of trying to read Clarence’s devious mind, I gave myself over to some hours of inactivity as I clenched my fist over the evidence. Once I had treasured such a note for the closeness it brought me to its author. Now I was not so sure. As for its content, I needed no convincing and took a solemn vow on it. I would never enter a convent. On that I needed no advice or instructions from any one. No one would persuade me to it. No one was ever likely to suggest it.

  Why should they?

  The towers of Warwick Castle, rising solidly above the protective stand of trees, glowed warm and welcoming in the evening light. For the first time on the journey I pulled back the curtain so that I might see the familiar walls, the sweep of the Avon, the wash of early summer foliage. Memories flooded back, happy ones. My childhood here, although the weeks were few in comparison with Middleham, had been in high summer when the river ran low and the gardens were sultry in the still air. When the swans with their fluffy offspring had dabbled in the shallows and my prospects had been entirely safe and predictable. How inviting to live here again, in familiarity, with old servants and comfortable affections. No spies, no lurking suspicion, no fear of imminent capture or death. No tensions or bitter jealousies, no deliberate ploys to hurt with sharp words. I could perhaps be happy here again.

  Except for the one garish unknown, the random shape in the pretty mosaic I had created from memory and hope. Isabel. How would she receive me? Nor did I know how I would react to having her stand in authority over me. I felt the little flutter of fear as the litter lurched to a halt, curtains quickly looped back. Servants came forwards, faces I recognised with smiles for the Neville daughter. I was helped from the cushions, feeling like a child again, cosseted and welcomed.

  ‘Anne! At last.’ The clear voice reached me across the courtyard. ‘We have been waiting an age.’ There Isabel stood, on the steps. I wondered fleetingly if she would wait for me to go to her, in the manner of petitioner and petitioned, but she did not. Running down the stairs, her face was alight with what could only be joy. ‘Thank God! You are safe.’

  I might have hesitated, but the pull of reunion with its compassionate words was suddenly strong and I fell into her embrace. We hugged, arms tight, and all was well again, as if we had never been parted, never exchanged bitter words. She was my sister and she would care for me. In the depths of my misery I did not question the warmth of her greeting.

  No doubt I was too ingenuous in my acceptance. I have no excuses.

  ‘Isabel. I am so glad to be home.’ I battled back the tears that pricked my eyelids, and the sudden guilt that I had ever doubted her. The past was gone. I was a widow in disgrace with no claim on anyone’s throne to stir her resentments. There was nothing to spoil our affection now.

  We stood for a moment, hands clasped. My sister looked well, the strains of the weeks in France smoothly erased. Life at Warwick with Clarence suited her, had restored her fair beauty, a more amenable nature. Perhaps there was the prospect of another babe to heal her griefs. And there, on the staircase, Margery waited, beaming widely her affection for me, as she had done all my life. Once again I was swept up in warm arms, crushed to her comfortable bosom. If I felt tearful before, I could have wept for the delight of it, no longer alone and beleaguered. I laughed shakily at my emotional reaction, inelegantly wiping the tears away with my hands.

  ‘Come. Come in, all is prepared for you,’ Isabel invited. ‘Your old rooms in the east wing are just as you will remember them. You’ll live here with me for as long as you wish.’

  Or as long as Edward decrees.

  There was the fly, dropped into the cup of ale to stir up endless circles. I was not free to dictate my own life. Deliberately I shook my head to dislodge the unpleasant thought. Tomorrow was soon enough for that.

  ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You should be,’ Margery announced, fixing me with a gimlet stare. It was as if I were back in the nursery. ‘You’re too pale. That disgraceful gown—just look at it—’ she raised her hands i
n horror ‘—it hangs on you. You’re no better than a willow wand. We need to feed you up.’

  I laughed. ‘I expect you will. I would not push aside the cook’s chicken pasties, if a little dish of them happened to appear at my elbow.’

  Margery’s eyes twinkled. ‘Always your favourites! I’ll see to it.’ She bustled off, giving Isabel and myself some space, as perhaps I had intended.

  ‘Do you wish to sit for a little?’ Isabel asked, solicitous of me, as if I were a guest.

  ‘I’d rather stand and walk for a while,’ I replied drily. ‘I would not recommend travelling by litter to anyone. But Clarence insisted.’

  ‘He would think it best to preserve your privacy.’

  ‘And anonymity?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Until everything is settled. Your unfortunate Lancastrian connections will soon be smoothed over.’

  As were yours and Clarence’s? Was it easy to smooth them away? Was the Earl’s death part of the payment? It would be more than churlish to ask so I did not. Life with Margaret had at least taught me to guard my tongue and not blurt out the first thought that came into my head. Meanwhile Isabel waved aside all difficulties as if they were a cloud of summer midges. ‘Come, then, and walk in the garden by the river. There’ll be warmth there still.’

  So we did, arm in arm, whilst I admitted to being taken aback. I had not expected this generosity. Isabel babbled on with comments and enthusiasms on her plans for her future and mine.

  ‘You’ll stay with me until the King decides,’ she confirmed my earlier thought, but seemed to find no difficulty with it. ‘I expect he’ll want to have you married again soon. You’ll have to become resigned to being used to catch and hold a wayward supporter for Edward.’ She must have seen my grimace. ‘It needn’t be so bad. Let’s pray he chooses someone young and at least attractive. Until then we shall enjoy each other’s company. We shall be settled in London for Christmas and Twelfth Night…’

  I let her ramble on, commenting and nodding as demanded, wondering all the time when she would touch on more personal subjects. They stood between us, insubstantial as ghosts, yet potent and tangible. They could not be blotted out for ever. It was not until we sat in a walled corner where honeysuckle was coming into bloom, where some residual warmth lingered to tease the perfume from the lilies that grew in profusion. The sun had gone, but the air was heavy, enticing the first bats to dart and swoop after invisible prey.

  ‘Anne…I’m sorry about the Prince. Whatever our differences, I would not have had it end like that.’

  ‘No.’ Now that she had opened the forbidden casket of pain and loss, I discovered that I did not know what to say to her. That I despised him and feared him in equal measure, that I was grateful beyond words to be freed from that unhappy household. I could not help thinking that Isabel was far more accommodating of my presence now that I was no longer a Princess, no longer a rival to her own bright visions of the future. With Edward’s son still an infant in arms, Clarence’s power in the realm would be prime. And so Isabel could afford to be generous with her consolations. Then I took myself to task for my ill will. Cynicism was not an attractive trait and I would not cultivate it.

  ‘I can’t talk about it yet,’ I managed gruffly. ‘The last weeks have been a time I wish to forget.’

  ‘Then we shall.’ In cheerful agreement, she stood. ‘Let’s go back in. It grows chill.’

  So she still would not touch on the matter close to my heart. Well, if she would not, I would. I remained seated as Isabel stood, looking up at her, marvelling at her ability to close her mind to anything that threatened to stir her complacency. I might have accused her of being superficial—except that I thought that she was not. My suspicions returned, that this was a carefully constructed ploy to achieve some ends not yet disclosed to me.

  ‘I have to talk about the Earl and Countess.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Unwillingly, she sank back to my side, expression carefully guarded. ‘What is there to say?’

  ‘I am told that our father is buried at Bisham.’

  ‘Yes.’

  No more, no less. There was a tightening of the muscles in Isabel’s jaw. She did not want to talk about it, that much was plain. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  Not ever, I suspected. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He died a traitor.’

  ‘He died bravely in battle!’

  Isabel hitched a shoulder.

  Clarence’s defection was to blame for his death! My mind might spell it out but I could not say it, not unless I wished to destroy our newly patched relationship with one blow. I let it drop, picked up another thread. ‘The Countess is still at Beaulieu.’

  ‘I know.’ A trace of impatience.

  ‘Why does Clarence not allow her to come here? Surely there would be no difficulty?’

  Isabel hesitated. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her folded hands curl into the embroidered overhang of her sleeve. ‘Clarence thinks it is better that she stay where she is. She’s safe and not in any discomfort out of the public eye.’

  ‘Do you expect her to stay in the Abbey for the rest of her life because it hides her from public view? Why should she not live here, in seclusion if necessary? Is it Edward who resists? Can Clarence not persuade Edward?’ I could not work through the layers. Why should it matter where she lived? The Countess was hardly preparing to lead an army against Edward. ‘Why does she need to remain in sanctuary at Beaulieu, Isabel? Edward is hardly likely to execute her, is he?’

  Isabel shrugged again, relenting only under my persistence. ‘No, he won’t. And I think Clarence will try, once the country is at peace again. It is just thought to be better that she remain there for now. As Warwick’s widow it might stir passions again if she returned to Court.’

  ‘But we are Warwick’s daughters!’ There was no logic here.

  ‘Anne…’

  ‘What, Isabel?’

  She sighed. ‘It is, after all, the Countess’s choice to remain at Beaulieu.’

  ‘Have you heard from her?’

  ‘A letter to me—to intercede for her. To persuade Edward not to confiscate the Beauchamp inheritance from her.’

  The inheritance. So was the inheritance the problem? I could not imagine why it should be. ‘But why should he? The Countess is not legally responsible for her husband’s treachery. Why should her own personal inheritance be threatened?’ I frowned.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Beauchamp-Despenser inheritance should eventually come to us, as it was always intended, as joint-heiresses. Is that not so?’

  ‘Yes…no! I don’t know!’

  I watched my sister react to my questioning. Uncomfortable, on her guard against me, her eyes hooded by her fair lashes. ‘Is there some difficulty, Isabel? Is Edward planning to disinherit the Countess?’

  ‘It has been talked of,’ she replied carefully, eyes on tight-clasped fingers. ‘Edward has his own plans to which I am not privy.’ Then, apparently with effort, she looked up at me, a plea in every line of her face. ‘There is no problem, Anne. Clarence will always guard our best interests, you must believe that. Let us not talk politics. It will only ruin and divide. I beg of you.’ Then with the return of a sharp edge I knew well. ‘Why do you always have to be so suspicious and spoil things? There is no problem!’

  I tried to read between the words she refused to speak. There was something here. Or then…perhaps I was mistaken and there was nothing. Perhaps just the aftermath of rebellion and division. I let it go—for now.

  ‘Forgive me, Isabel. It comes of living with Queen Margaret for so long, where it was wise not to trust anyone. I think I’ve caught the habit. We’ll talk of pleasanter things…’

  We stood, Isabel taking instant refuge in smiles and good humour. ‘Far more pleasant! We need to discuss your appearance.’ Arm around my waist, she tugged on my sleeve. ‘That garment, for one, can be consigned to the midden. You look like a camp follower! Do yo
u have anything suitable to wear that does not carry the mud of every road in the west of England?’

  I cast my mind over my meagre possessions. How ridiculous to think that I, who had been a Princess, could now pack everything I owned into one small travelling coffer. ‘No. And far worse than mud! You don’t want to know! Your kitchen servants are dressed better than I.’ I could not tell her of the tortuous journeys, hour after hour on horseback, to evade Edward. The flight from battle. The horror of Tewkesbury in the aftermath, scenes that still haunted my dreams. I could not speak of any of that. Perhaps in time I would.

  Oblivious, satisfied that the difficult subjects had been temporarily buried, Isabel steered me back along the paths towards the living quarters. ‘Then you must borrow some of mine until we can remedy your lack. If you are to appeal to a new husband…’ There was the mention of marriage again. My attention caught, held, considered, until Isabel dragged my thoughts back. ‘And here is Margery doubtless to summon you to a feast. Consider yourself a goose being fattened for Twelfth Night.’ My sister pinched my waist, an affectionate gesture. ‘She’ll not be satisfied before you are plump and comely, and the seams on your new dresses strain!’

  She hugged me close, laughed, so that I felt warm and enclosed in family love again. She was my sister and perhaps we could be happy together. As long as we did not touch on sensitive subjects.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MY days at Warwick as Isabel’s guest settled into the easy routine of summer. For me it was a confused insubstantial time, a sort of healing I suppose, when I confess I deliberately turned my mind from both past and future, from everything outside the safe walls of the castle. The fear and anguish of battle, of flight and death receded into a vague existence that seemed to have nothing to do with me. The Prince was part of a different life from which I distanced myself. I would not think of it. Nor would I allow myself to consider the next unknown chapter in my life. I would remain here in my family home. I would stroll and ride, read, stitch and enjoy the balm of music. I would not admit to desperate boredom or the times when my thoughts escaped my will and strained towards London and what the Plantagenet brothers might be doing there. I convinced myself I no longer had an interest in politics and power; the government of the country would continue quite well without me. Not even the death of old King Henry in the Tower could move me. He had been struck down by a fatal melancholy, so the official account proclaimed, on being told of his son’s death. The unofficial rumours were far more interesting. Assassination, whispered some. Richard of Gloucester, murmured those who claimed to be informed. The news was quick to reach us at Warwick.