Did Richard have a hand in it? Quite possibly, I thought, recalling his fearsome authority at Tewkesbury. Most likely, I acknowledged, since I no longer knew of what he was capable. I considered it, but briefly and dispassionately, then buried the whole matter, refusing to allow so monstrous an idea to worm its way through my deliberate distancing. I closed my emotions off from everything that might touch my heart.
Isabel mentioned my remarriage at regular intervals. I saw her plan. If she planted the seeds and nurtured them, I would grow accustomed to the idea. I was biddable and amazingly amenable to her gossipy suggestions. Even Margery raised her brows at my unnatural compliance as if waiting for me to break out into habitual sharpness of tongue and observation. I did not. I was not sufficiently interested. Richard was never mentioned in Isabel’s parading of suitable husbands. I did not even bother to consider why not, but remained sunk in lethargy, wilfully rejecting all that might distress or resurrect the pain. Until a conversation jolted me out of my introspection.
It developed as a result of one of Clarence’s flying visits between the north and London, a matter of hours and mostly spent in private words between himself and Isabel. I thought nothing of it and kept to my room. It was not my concern.
‘Well? What did he have to say?’ I walked in on Isabel as he departed, without any real interest in the answer. Until I realised that she was doing her clumsy best to hide the tears that blotched her cheeks. ‘Isabel…What’s wrong?’ Immediately I was beside her, my arm around her shoulders as she scrubbed furiously with her palms.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’
‘Was it something Clarence said?’
‘No, no…Nothing like that.’ Her smile was heartbreaking, her pale skin mottled and red. ‘His news was good—we should join him in London soon…’
I would not accept that. ‘Something has made you sad…’
‘It’s nothing! Have I not said?’ Suddenly the delicate friendship that had developed over the weeks fell away as she extricated herself from my embrace. ‘Just a matter between husband and wife.’
‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’ Seeing the set of her lips, I retreated.
Meanwhile Isabel picked up her stitching and a little silence descended on the sun-filled room. Respecting her mood, I turned the pages of a book of poetry, but found the insipid theme of romance did not hold my attention. Nor did I think that her mind was on the choice of colour for the overstitched leaves that would entwine artistically along the length of the embroidered belt. The comparative merit of red or gold was not a reason for the tight indentation at the corner of her lips.
‘Anne…’ Confirming this, she looked up from her stitches, with the impression that she had come to a decision. ‘Have you perhaps thought of marriage again…?’
Not this again. I did not try to hide a sigh. ‘No. I don’t think of it. And certainly not without a husband in the near prospect.’
‘Do you wish to marry again?’
‘Not today, for sure!’ I tried for a little humour to dispel the unaccountable edginess in my sister. ‘Besides, will not Edward settle it? No point in worrying over it until he has.’
‘I just wondered if it was distasteful to you.’
‘Well, I am now of an age. And as a widow I can give my own consent or refusal if I find the man unpalatable. Don’t worry…’ I smiled ‘…I’ll not be pushed into some desperate misalliance. Unless he is young, handsome and extremely wealthy, I shall say no.’
‘Yes, of course you will.’ Momentarily anxious, Isabel pasted an encouraging smile back in place. ‘It’s just…well, there is another alternative. If you decide that marriage is not to your taste…’
‘Hmm?’ I was no longer really listening. I turned a page. Another paean to the delights of love for me to yawn over, until Isabel reached out to close her hand over mine. I looked up.
‘I am considering establishing a convent. As our ancestors did with their patronage at Tewkesbury. I am of a mind to do the same.’
‘Oh?’
‘If you rejected remarriage—you could enter the convent.’
‘What? A nun?’ My brain was now engaged, book discarded.
‘You could take the veil. It would keep you out of the affairs of men if you did not choose to be given in marriage for political reasons, and it would give you considerable autonomy. With the prospect of becoming the Prioress eventually. You might enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy it? I doubt it very much!’
Don’t let them persuade you to go into a convent.
The written words leapt suddenly, strongly into my mind.
‘Don’t be hasty. Take a little time to think about it.’ The sweetness of Isabel’s smile was an essay in persuasion.
My docility lessened by degrees. ‘I don’t need time! I think I don’t care for it. I think you must be out of your mind to suggest it!’
‘Consider your authority as the Lady Prioress, backed by Neville money and consequence.’
‘Consider me as a nun, Isabel! Have you lost your wits? Me taking an oath of obedience!’ Knowing me as she had all her life, I could not believe that she would make such a suggestion. There was a sudden vision of myself in dark robes and wimple, my freedom curtailed, my life one of penance and prayer, with a need to guard my tongue and conform to the rules of the order. I stared at her aghast.
‘Would it be so very bad?’
‘Yes!’
‘What’s this? The Lady Anne to take the veil?’ Margery, entering the room with my cloak—which I had mislaid somewhere—over her arm to overhear the final remarks, lost no time in giving her own opinion. ‘An unlikely prospect.’
‘Isabel thinks I would make an acceptable Lady Prioress,’ I remarked, brows raised in her direction. And that little beat of fear in my throat.
Don’t let them persuade you…
‘Does she, now? I can’t think of anyone less suitable.’ Margery clicked her tongue against her teeth and scowled at my sister. ‘A good husband is what she wants.’
It seemed to me that it was on the tip of Isabel’s tongue to snap a short rude reply to Margery, but she quickly covered it with another empty smile, hands raised in surrender. ‘Perhaps you are right. There’s no urgency or compulsion. I simply thought I would like a convent of my own founding, and for it to come under the guidance of my sister. Our own foundation, as the Despensers did at Tewkesbury. It seems a good idea.’
‘No. It doesn’t.’ I left her in no doubt.
‘Then it shall not be.’
As she applied her needle once more, as if we had not had the conversation, I felt a need to stand, to escape the little room.
‘It’s a fine day—too fine to remain indoors, and the poetry does not take my mind. I will ride out—through the water meadows.’
Isabel immediately put aside her embroidery. ‘I’ll go with you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Sharper than I intended.
‘I shall enjoy it as much as you.’
I was already marching towards the door. ‘If you wish.’
As we set out on a pair of lively horses, with servants to escort us and a pair of armed guards at our backs, it came to me in one of those strange moments of recognition. How could I have been so blind? One way or another, since the morning I had stood before King Edward at Coventry, I was never allowed to be alone.
Edward’s Court was in celebratory mood.
It had a purpose, of course—Edward was never without purpose—to impress the King’s subjects as much as the interested foreign visitors with the Son of York’s ascendancy. Open-handed to an astonishing degree, Edward had put on a show of sumptuous magnificence, heavy with gold plate, exuberant with masques, banquets and dancing. By his side, her lovely face unlined in spite of her ordeals of past months, Queen Elizabeth presided over all with preening self-satisfaction.
‘Her smugness irritates me beyond measure,’ Isabel whispered in my ear.
&n
bsp; ‘I suppose she has cause.’ I had become more tolerant of late.
‘Because she has carried a son at last?’
In the face of Isabel’s ever-simmering resentment I kept silent. There was no sign of her falling for another child after the death of the infant off Calais. Any grief she still suffered was tightly controlled and she would not confide in me, but it was no surprise to me that she despised the fertile Queen with her three daughters and now a healthy son.
The little prince and heir, the infant Edward, made his first formal appearance in a carved oak cradle hung with gold tassels and crimson satin, from which the Queen lifted him in her arms to show him off, so that the same long-limbed, golden beauty as his father could be noted and admired.
‘He’s beautiful, a worthy heir,’ I murmured tactlessly.
‘Do you think so?’
Another source of bitterness, that this babe had ousted Clarence from his position as heir to his brother. ‘Clarence will never wear the crown, Isabel. You must accept it.’ Was I unfeeling? I was honest. Others might have watched their words.
‘There’s no need to sound so thoroughly satisfied!’
My sympathies dissipated further. ‘I’m not. Why should it matter to me how many sons the King might have? Or to you? Clarence is powerful in his own right. What more do you want, Isabel? He now has half our father’s Neville land. Isn’t that enough for you and for him?’ I found it difficult to believe that my sister would be so grasping. After the Earl’s death the King had divided the Neville lands between Clarence and Gloucester, and Clarence as the elder had grasped the major portion.
Regardless of our surroundings, Isabel turned a furious look on me. ‘Clarence deserves more! He deserves to—’ Then quickly drew a breath on what he might deserve. ‘It doesn’t matter. Now is not the time to talk of this.’
There would never be a good time in my opinion. A bright flush stained Isabel’s skin from the neckline of her gown to the roots of her hair, and I was relieved to let it go, turning back to the happy scene before me where the Queen beamed her delight. The baby fussed and waved its tiny fists whilst Edward chuckled and smoothed his large hand over its wispy hair before signalling to the musicians to strike up for a round dance. With such energy behind it, the festivity was quite as lively and exciting as I recalled from past days. I might have viewed it all through jaundiced eyes, but it was difficult when the King was in the mood for high-spirited dancing and foolish games.
I admit to enjoying myself.
Except that the Duke of Gloucester was at Court, and was keeping his distance. It was as if we existed in separate circles. They might brush together or fleetingly overlap, but nothing to invite intimacy. We did not exchange more than two dozen words and the customary cool acknowledgement when it was necessary for good manners. He would bow over my hand, precise and graceful as ever—and as responsive to my presence as an oak plank—whilst I would curtsy with a profound elegance that even Margaret of Anjou would fail to find fault with. I had learnt some lessons with perfection at Margaret’s Court.
‘Welcome to Court, Lady Anne. I see you are restored to good health.’
‘I am.’ Good health, indeed! No longer looking thin and worn as I had when last he set eyes on me? Was that a deliberate slight on my appearance? Vanity caused me to clench my teeth. And if he was not prepared to make any further effort, then I was certainly not going to demand his attention. Not that I wanted it, I reminded myself when my heart sank and my mood became less than festive. If he had cast me adrift, it was his choice and I wished him well of his future bride, whoever she might be. If it was necessary to discipline myself against allowing my gaze to slide across the room to where he was invariably the centre of attraction, it was of course to be expected. He was much in demand. Royal brother, royal counsellor, Constable of England. Unmarried and personable. What woman in the room did not have an eye to him? I didn’t! By the Virgin, I wouldn’t! I would not give him a moment’s thought!
I broke my vow on only one occasion and that was at the King’s playfully malicious intervention. I saw the mischief in his face as he ordered the minstrels to strike up for a ceremonial progression and tugged on the Queen’s hand to lead her into the formal steps. By chance I had been standing with her, engaged in some stilted conversation, but on her husband’s invitation the Queen willingly agreed to dance.
‘I might regret this,’ she murmured to me, acknowledging Edward’s enthusiastic style, her delicately arched brows raised in self-mockery, but she allowed herself to be persuaded, whilst Edward’s smile flashed into a grin as he saw the opportunity.
‘Gloucester!’ he hailed his brother. ‘Here’s her Highness the Princess, without either a husband or a partner to keep her company. Come to her rescue. Dance with her.’
The nerves in my belly beat like the wings of trapped butterflies. I would not dance with him. I would make some excuse…
‘No need, brother. I was about to offer myself as Lady Anne’s partner.’ Clarence amazingly appeared at my elbow, all smiles. To my astonishment, he took possession of my hand as if it were his right, as if it were decided without any response from me.
‘Dance with your own wife, Clarence,’ the King intervened. ‘Gloucester can do the honours here. He dances better than you.’
Which compliment to Richard’s abilities to tread the measures I did not believe for one moment. Nor did Edward from the glint in his eye. I stood, mute as a statue. What was happening here?
‘If you wish it, sire.’ Clarence bowed, but his grasp on my fingers tightened.
There was a little silence, the outcome still up for debate, until Gloucester smoothly filled it.
‘It will be an honour for me to dance with Lady Anne.’
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was this irony? But he promptly held out his hand, indicating that I should transfer mine from Clarence to his, all the time his eyes pinning Clarence, daring him to refuse. Fascinated, Edward stayed to watch the storm of ripples that he had created by throwing this particular stone into the pond. Which left Clarence with no choice but to retreat. But there it was again. The strange triangle, Richard, Clarence and myself, the vibrations between us strong enough to taint the air. Why had Edward pushed the issue, why had he involved himself at all? What did it matter to him if I partnered Clarence or Gloucester? The Devil leered in the grin he cast in my direction as he obeyed his wife’s promptings and joined the dancers.
‘My lady.’ Gloucester led me to follow. ‘Since everyone is so keen on it, let us dance. We must make sure to give every appearance of pleasure to those who have an interest in it. Or then again…’ his smile became wry ‘…perhaps it would be better if we didn’t.’
A strange thing to say. And almost as if speaking his thoughts to himself. I looked up at his stern face. ‘I’m sorry you were forced into something you did not wish to do.’
He looked down, clearly brought back to the immediate. ‘Forgive me. That was unpardonable. I was merely thinking aloud. A bad habit and a rude one as I am sure you would tell me. And I am not reluctant. I enjoy dancing.’
And what should I make of that? Dancing, yes. But not the company. But there had also been the touch of humour, of past intimacy. It was like floundering in a choppy sea without map or compass.
It was never easy for even the most friendly of partners to exchange words in a progression, but we didn’t even try. That did not mean that I was not aware of every soft brush of his body against mine, the cool pressure from his fingers on mine as we stepped and turned. No words, except once. When we came close in the dance and the progression was almost at an end. Gloucester leaned, almost unobserved, so that he could whisper in my ear, ‘I see, from your magnificence tonight, that you have not taken the veil.’
I stepped away, then back, and arched my brows at the sharp appreciation in his glance as he took in the undoubted magnificence of the red brocade, the rubies set in gold, the hennin with its gold-edged drifting gauze. ‘No, I have not.’
The dance moved us apart.
‘Thank God!’ he added as we came together again.
And that was it. When he kissed my hand at the end, his lips were cool, yet they burned. I swear he would feel my blood hammering through to my fingertips.
‘There, my lady, we have pleased everyone except brother Clarence.’
He had that right enough. Clarence positively glowered.
‘Thank you, your Grace,’ I replied with all maidenly modesty, when it was in my mind to demand: Why? What is it between you? What is my role in this?
‘It was entirely my pleasure.’
He bowed as he prepared to leave me. I thought it had not been a pleasure for him despite his words. There were dangerous undercurrents here, encompassing the Plantagenet brothers, but that also threatened to drag me under.
At the last vanity prompted me. Not that I cared, of course, but I would know how he saw me after so long apart, even though I might not enjoy the answer. Would he still see me as the immature girl he had kissed in the chapel at Warwick? Or as a fashionable woman in a steeple hennin?
‘Richard…’
He turned his head.
‘When you saw me for the first time—at Coventry—what did you think?’
‘I thought…’ The line was dug deep between his brows. ‘I thought here is a lovely woman, grown into her beauty. A woman who is strong and courageous.’ I must have looked taken aback, as I was. ‘You seem surprised, but you are beautiful. You are a woman any man of sense would—’ Delivered in a brusque tone, it was quickly cut off at Isabel’s approach. Richard turned on his heel.
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