Anne O'Brien

by Virgin Widow (epub)

  ‘Do we have a dispensation?’ I demanded, annoyance building.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would the King actually work against it? Advise the Pope against it?’

  Stretched out in the one chair the room boasted, Richard studied his feet, crossed at the ankle, as if he had never seen the soft boots before, whilst he thought. I could see it was a matter that had worried his mind. ‘I don’t know. He might. I know why he’s doing it and can’t damn him for it. He’ll protect England from further bloodshed, as I would if I were King, by any means he can, and if that means keeping Clarence at least marginally satisfied…’

  ‘So it’s hopeless.’ I stared accusingly. ‘Do I stay here, unwed, until I die?’

  ‘Well…’ Ignoring my crossness, suddenly Richard lifted his gaze from his footwear and smiled fully at me with a quizzical gleam. He pushed to his feet, took my hand and drew me with him to the window to look out over the street, his fingers tapping restlessly on the ledge. ‘There’s one remedy to all of this,’ he announced, turning his head to look at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve an idea. But you must trust me. Do you trust me, after all that has happened?’ He studied my face as if trying to read my thoughts, with just a hint of mischief as if he might dare me to take a risk. Like leaping the stones across the river at Middleham without falling in. Then—at eight years old—I had risen to the challenge—and got my feet and skirts wet and the sharp edge of Margery’s tongue. But now…After recent experiences, it struck me that I might be wise not to trust any man.

  ‘Is there danger?’

  ‘Danger? No.’ Hs lips curved. ‘I didn’t take you for a coward, Anne Neville!’

  ‘I’m not! But…’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  I frowned at him. ‘Yes…’ Because Richard, I decided, was not just any man.

  ‘Prove it!’ His hands, smoothing slowly, shiveringly, down along the length of my back to force me close against him, left me with no real choice.

  Richard’s scheme, whatever it might be and for which he demanded my trust, had perforce to be shelved since the recalcitrant Welsh, launching another uprising, demanded Richard’s renewed absence. His leavetaking was brief, his squire waiting below with horse and weapons, a tidy force already on the march to the west.

  ‘I’ll be back when I can.’ A fast kiss, a pressure on my hands within his, palm to palm.

  ‘I shall miss you.’

  He cast an eye around the empty room. ‘Shall I buy you some creature to keep you company?’

  ‘Not finches!’ I announced, more than abruptly, before I could think.

  ‘I was thinking of a lap dog to sit at your feet and yap to give warning of visitors!’ he remarked drily, startled. ‘I won’t force one on you!’ He must have seen the distress in my face. His brows arrowed together. ‘Why not birds? My mother has a popinjay I wouldn’t wish on the Devil, but singing birds in a cage…Surely…?’

  ‘No!’ I shook my head furiously.

  ‘Ah!’ He rubbed his thumb contemplatively along the line of my jaw. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me some time.’ And he let me be.

  ‘Yes. Keep safe, Richard.’

  So he was gone. And I could not admit to being too disappointed in his absence, for of those weeks of lonely vigil I seemed to spend much of the morning hours vomiting painfully. It was a situation guaranteed to engage my mind from missing him.

  ‘Death could be easier,’ I gasped as nausea shook me once again when Margery placed a bowl of some noxious substance before me—hot milk laced with mint, I thought with a grimace—with instructions to drink.

  Margery surveyed me, hands on hips, uncertain whether to frown at me in holy disapproval or rejoice. ‘You should have felt more sympathy for Lady Isabel. You’ll soon come around, when the first weeks have passed.’ Then rejoicing won. ‘I warrant his Grace will be pleased. Who’d have thought you’d have been caught so fast?’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t!’

  Unlike my mother’s early difficulties, I had fallen for a child almost immediately. Despite my denials, I did not know what I felt about this unlooked-for complication, even when the sickness stopped abruptly, leaving me full of energy and rude good health. I could not imagine Richard being delighted at the prospect, whilst I was battered by a crowd of difficulties. Unwed. No prospect of marriage within the near future. No dispensation on the horizon. No one to give me advice or word of comfort, certainly not Isabel, and I firmly slammed the door against any thought of the Countess, whom I found I needed more than ever. Trust me. I doubted Richard had this in mind when he had assured me of his competence to manage all things.

  ‘Let’s hope my lord of Gloucester is still of a mind to wed you!’ Margery returned to her mode of righteous censure. I could almost see fornication written in her mind. Richard might do no wrong. It was I who had been at fault.

  ‘Let’s hope indeed.’

  I would not choose to have my child born out of wedlock with the condemnation of the Church and the tongues of the gossips lashing against me. Women were expected to be chaste; the tolerance offered to men would not be extended to me. And who had lured whom? I remembered my own wilfulness with contrition and in a lowering of spirits wished it all undone…

  Except that this complication that was not complicated at all, this promised child brought Richard close. At night I folded my hands over my belly and dreamed of an unattainable future where there was nothing to disturb me beyond the wealth of the next harvest or the state of the honeycombs in the beehives at Middleham. I would relinquish everything for that.

  ‘Come home, Richard,’ I whispered into the soft down of the pillow. What would he say when I told him? I would have to trust him, even as I awaited his return with less than unalloyed pleasure.

  They weren’t quite the first words I uttered on our reunion, but not far off. I knew he was back in London, knew I must wait on the convenience of the King, who had demanded a thorough dissection of the Welsh situation. Knowing I would never be first in Richard’s priorities, I had come to accept it. Even so I paced impatiently, to peer through the window every time the clip of hooves signalled an approach.

  And then he was with me. I thought he looked tired, as if he had ridden long and hard. Nor had he stayed to change his garments, one of those little details that lit a flame beneath my heart. At least only the King took precedence. Without words he held me tight in a cloud of dust and horse and sweat. I revelled in it, in the scrape of his jaw, rough with dark stubble, against my cheek as his hands fisted in my unbound hair, for I kept no state.

  ‘I have missed you beyond measure.’ Such simple words, so few, against my throat to calm all my nerves.

  At length Richard sat with a sigh whilst I poured him ale and he drank gratefully. ‘It was a long dry journey. The Welsh—’

  ‘Richard—I have fallen for a child.’

  ‘Ah…’ The rim of the pewter mug paused at his lips. He put it down carefully, his eyes following his hand, lingering there as if he could see something I could not.

  ‘A child. A Plantagenet and Neville heir,’ I repeated, watching his face. By the Virgin! Why could I not tell what he was thinking? Even when he raised his eyes to mine, there was a calculation.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded.

  ‘A child? You are certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As I watched a gradual warming, a growing light, that ousted the habitual severity from his face, I realised for the first time what this might mean for him. For Richard was as isolated as I, his family as disparate and divided as mine. We both knew what it was to be alone, unsure of family trust and loyalties. We both knew when to guard our tongues, veil our thoughts, our emotions. But here was the promise of our child, our own family, a priceless blessing. And then Richard was on his feet and he laughed. An outpouring of sheer delight that left me in no doubt of his reception of the inconvenient news, and made me smile in return.

  ‘Anne, my love, my joy. Why could yo
u not wait, for once in your life!’

  ‘It was not my choice!’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it was.’ I found myself swept off my feet, pulled close beside him on the settle. ‘It complicates matters, but I can’t regret it.’

  ‘Complicates! I don’t want this child to be born unrecognised, without the sanctity of marriage,’ I muttered the worst of my fears into his shoulder, fears I had never been able to voice to Margery. Within my own family I knew the arrangements for the inconvenience of children born out of wedlock. The Earl had had a daughter, Margaret, product of his youthful hot blood. Care had been taken with her upbringing, and marriage arranged to a man of standing, but I did not want that for a child of mine.

  ‘That will not happen.’

  ‘No dispensation, no marriage!’ I retorted with prickly temper.

  ‘No faith, my cynical one!’

  His mouth smiled against mine as he kissed me, silenced me, and his hands seduced my thoughts as he found a need to celebrate by repeating the crucial deed all over again, despite the dust of travel. I was reduced to breathless pleasure. Nor was I in any way unwilling, discovering that the rough scrape of his unshaven chin held its own charm. And although I would never have wagered on it, the aroma of horse and honest sweat was far preferable to the costly perfume of frankincense and civet.

  But how could Richard have such conviction in his ability to direct the future to his own needs?

  Chapter Nineteen

  A HAMMERING thundered against the outer door of my rooms, breaking the silence of St Martin’s sanctuary. I awoke, eyes wide, senses alert.

  ‘Margery!’ I whispered to the hunched mound on her bed by the window. ‘Margery!’

  It stirred and she sat up, her movements indicating that she was as fraught as I. Not even daylight, I registered, on a cold, grey February morning. My heart began to hammer just as heavily as the fist at the door as my mind cleared from sleep. Perhaps Archbishop Neville’s name was not as powerful as we had thought. Was it Clarence, come at last to drag me back to Cold Harbour? There was no one to stop him if he were so determined as to come at this hour with a force at his back, if he would break the holy protection of sanctuary. Well, I would not go quietly! Grabbing a robe, I climbed from the bed. Then Margery was at my side, taking charge, any fears masked behind brisk efficiency. She opened the door into the outer chamber.

  ‘Bar the door until I return. Use the bench against it if you must.’ Margery vanished, leaving me to decide not to manhandle the heavy settle. If Clarence had come for me, I doubted a bench against my bedchamber door would save me.

  I pressed my ear to the door. Surely Margery would not exchange words with any one of Clarence’s men who had come to take me into custody. More likely to use a fire-iron against his skull. With common sense returning, my heart rate settled, only to spike again when Margery returned, rapid steps moving her considerable bulk along.

  ‘Make haste!’ She was already issuing orders, all the while pouring water into the bowl, opening my chests, searching out my comb. ‘We’ve no time to waste.’

  ‘For what? Tell me! Tell me—or I don’t move from this spot!’ I folded my arms. ‘Who was it?’

  She did not even glance in my direction, but unfolded a favourite red damask over-skirt from the clothespress. ‘Lord Francis. He waits without. Gloucester sent him.’

  ‘Francis? What does he want?’

  ‘He’ll doubtless tell you when he sees you.’

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I suddenly thought she seemed less than surprised.

  Ignoring my furious question, Margery thrust a shift into my hands. ‘Get dressed, lady.’

  Will you trust me? If you will trust me we can accomplish anything we desire. But what exactly was it Gloucester, in this high-handed manner, had in mind?

  I struggled into whatever petticoat and over-gown Margery handed me. She laced me in with little thought to my comfort and all for speed, whilst I braided my hair and covered it with a simple veil and filet because there was no time to do otherwise. We were ready within the quarter-hour with Francis striding to and fro impatiently beyond the door. With barely a greeting between us we were riding through the streets, little lighter, with a thin mist rising from the river to shroud us and dampen our garments. Some hardy souls were about, but most had still to brave the bitter cold of the east wind. No one registered our passing.

  Francis led us in the direction of Westminster.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked breathlessly as he bustled us along.

  ‘Here!’ he announced, and directed me to dismount in a small, deserted courtyard. Horses were already there, blowing in the cold air, steam rising from their rapid journey. I recognised Richard’s stallion amongst them although he was not in sight. Without any greeting I was helped down by a waiting squire who disappeared into the darkness of the nearest archway to carry the news of my arrival. I was too overwhelmed by it all to worry about where I was or what I was doing. Richard had left me no time for second thoughts.

  As Margery fussed over my appearance and attempted to pull my veil into seemly folds, Richard came out, a priest nervously attempting to keep up with him. It was only then that I looked round, determining where we were in the shrouding mist. This was St Stephen’s and Richard came to a halt under the archway to the porch, enveloped in a heavy cloak. Instantly I joined him.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I demanded, conscious of the furtive glance of the priest in my direction.

  ‘Welcome, my dear love,’ Richard murmured softly for my ears, drawing me apart a little. ‘I knew you’d come quickly.’ Although the groove had dug itself between his brows as it did when he was thinking, planning, he grasped my hands in his before turning one up to kiss my palm. He even took the time to smile at me. ‘Not what I would choose, but the best I could do. Times are chancy. You’ll not find much ceremony in the proceedings today, lady. A poor affair, but necessary.’ He indicated the liveried men of his private force, the gleam of the white boar on their breast, keeping discreet watch. ‘I asked if you would trust me and you said yes. Now I must ask you to prove it. Are you ready to take that step?’

  I knew immediately. And felt the urgency of it. ‘To marry now? Today?’ I clung to his hands, sharply anxious. ‘We can’t, Richard.’ My scrambled thoughts clicked over the days of the calendar. ‘It’s Lent. Church law does not permit us to wed in Lent.’

  ‘Yet we will do it.’

  It felt as though I was rushed along in a storm, a stray autumn leaf in a winter gale. ‘Do you have a dispensation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it isn’t legal.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later.’

  ‘Richard, we can’t—’

  His hands around mine closed tight. ‘I’ll get the dispensation, I promise you. But I want you and I need to protect you. I can’t do that effectively against Clarence unless you are my wife. Even now he’ll be with the King, arguing his case. Edward is a reed in a stiff wind and will bend for his best interests. I might have waited, but now I cannot. Not when you carry my child. My heir.’ How typical of him to presume that the child would be a son, I thought inconsequentially. His eyes glinted in the greyness, implacable, refusing to allow me to look away as insecurity gnawed at my nerves. ‘This is the final time for you to make a choice, for you to accept or refuse. Will you wed me? Now? Today?’ His lips, cold in the icy wind, brushed my fingers. ‘I think you love me enough to risk all. You’ll not refuse me.’

  I tried to read his face, the secretive depths of his eyes. And now I could feel the tension in his hands, his fingers through the fine kid of his gloves digging into my wrists, the driving insistence within him that would persuade me, but would never force me against my will. Within me I felt a softening, a smoothing out. I had reached the eye of the storm. The still, quiet centre, where all I wanted in the world was here, a priceless gift, being offered to me in his hands, still clasped around mine.

  Never had I hand
ed my will so readily to another. ‘It shall be as you wish. If you say yes, Richard, then I say yes. If no, then I say no.’

  First there was astonishment at my capitulation. Then satisfaction, an ebbing of tension. ‘I say yes.’

  ‘Then that is what I want.’ I stretched on my toes to kiss his cheek.

  ‘Come, then. All is prepared.’ He led me in.

  ‘Do we make a run for it to Middleham, or do we brave the wolf in his den and tell him what we’ve done?’ I tried for a lightness I did not feel. My heart was full of joy, but fear lurked and snapped its teeth.

  ‘My heart says Middleham, my dear wife.’ Richard fleetingly kissed my temple, his thoughts running ahead. Something I realised I must grow to accept. ‘But my gut says Westminster.’

  ‘Who wins?’

  ‘Gut. We’ll not stir the fire more than we need. Edward in a temper could scorch us all.’

  So that’s where we went. It was still early, the brutally bare ceremony over in the blink of an eye, but the King had a reputation for being about business as soon as there was light in the sky to read by, breaking his fast and hearing Mass before the seventh hour, so there was no surprise to find him occupied with documents to hand in the panelled room he used for such business. Nor was it a surprise to find Clarence with him and the King looking burdened.

  At the door, with no servant to announce us, Richard drew me closer against him within his arm. It drove home the reality for me far more than the rapidly muttered Latin in St Stephen’s. I need fear no longer. Here was my protection, his heart beating strongly against my spread palms as I turned momentarily towards him for courage. I would never be unprotected again. The wonder of it, the sheer comfort of it, enveloped me as he pressed my lips with commanding fingers to silence me.

  ‘We may not have quite won the war yet,’ he murmured, ‘but we’ve won this battle. Let’s announce our victory.’ Taking my hand, he drew me forwards beside him, pushing back the door.