Anne Neville: Richard III's Tragic Queen

by Licence, Amy

  However, the letter is not a reliable source. For starters, it is an edited version of a lost original, published by Buck’s great-nephew in the 1640s. The original version (BL MS. Cotton Tiberius E. x. f. 238v) is fire-damaged and has been reconstructed to an extent that suggests liberal degrees of ‘interpretation’ by Buck junior.4 The first version’s assertion that Elizabeth ‘feared the queene would nev…’ has become ‘feared the queen would never die’. To play devil’s advocate, this could even have related to concerns for Anne’s health and good wishes for her recovery. The second version says Elizabeth belonged to Richard ‘in heart and in thoughts, in body and in all’, although the suggestive word ‘body’ is absent from the letter of 1619, turning a conventional phrase into a potential physical affair. However, as his niece, whom he had sworn to protect and suitably marry, Elizabeth was his to dispose of bodily. The earlier letter asks Howard to be ‘a mediator for her to the K … [space] … ge …’, which Buck junior interpreted as a mediator for her in her marriage to the king himself. It is possible, though, that this letter must be viewed in the context of Richard’s attempts to provide his niece with a marriage, as he had promised. Tudor’s oath and impending invasion made that all the more urgent. He had married Elizabeth’s sister, the fifteen-year-old Cecily, to Lord Scrope and may now have been planning a joint match for himself and Elizabeth. Suitably for a king and princess, his attention turned abroad. A powerful foreign alliance could add prestige to his reign and furnish him with allies in the event of Lancastrian reprisals. Richard may now have been planning a double Portuguese marriage. The proposal had been suggested by Sir Edward Brampton, by which Richard was to marry the teenage Joana of Castile, while Elizabeth would wed Manuel, Duke of Beja, later Manuel I of Portugal, who had been born in 1469. The planned union was referred to by Alvaro Lopez de Chaves, as the Portuguese hoped for English support against Castilian rebels, and may well have been the match Elizabeth was referring to early in 1485. Although this interpretation absolves Elizabeth from callously anticipating her aunt’s death in order to satisfy an ‘incestuous passion’, it follows that Richard was already thinking of remarriage in the spring of 1485, while Anne was still alive.

  Perhaps his intentions pre-dated that. Vergil states that it was news of Richard’s impending match with Elizabeth that prompted Henry Tudor to act, which assumes the rumours reached him before his declaration regarding the summer. However, he may also have believed the marriage would go ahead, as he did briefly entertain the idea of defeat and returned to the possibility of taking Maude Herbert as his wife. Jean Molinet, French chronicler and translator of the Roman de la Rose, believed that Elizabeth had borne Richard a child in secret but this can be dismissed as the time-scale hardly allows it. Any child conceived on or around that Christmas would have arrived, if it had been full-term, in the late summer of 1485, around the time of Bosworth. Richard did send Elizabeth away to Sheriff Hutton in the spring, where a pregnancy could have been concealed, although with his desire for a legitimate heir, he would surely have married her after Anne’s death, despite the disapproval of his council. The five months or so that Elizabeth spent in Yorkshire allow for such speculation; even, following romantic lines, a secret marriage or miscarriage. Yet no other source mentions a child. Molinet probably did not visit England during that period; he was the librarian of Margaret of Austria, step-granddaughter of Richard’s sister, Margaret of Burgundy, and, as such, hostile to Elizabeth and Henry Tudor. It is highly unlikely that Henry Tudor would have made the Yorkist princess his queen if he had any suspicions regarding her virtue. The further five-month time-lapse between Henry’s succession and marriage has also been interpreted as his deliberate delay, in order to ascertain whether or not Elizabeth was pregnant by Richard. These individuals were no strangers to controversy or gossip, though. This single report that Elizabeth had conceived a child by Richard must be dismissed as one of the worst examples of contemporary slander.

  Had Richard been drawn into a relationship with his niece? Rumours at court do not translate into incontrovertible fact, no matter how many people repeat them. And they were repeated frequently in later years, usually to blacken Richard in the eyes of Elizabeth’s Tudor descendants. ‘The Ballad of Lady Bessye’ states unequivocally the princess’s distaste of her uncle as well as her belief that Richard intended his wife’s death in order to satisfy his lust.

  He wolde have put away his Queene

  for to haue lyen by my bodye.

  She would not be drawn into marriage with her uncle no matter what punishment she might suffer as a result: the union was clearly damnable in her eyes.

  I care not whether I hange or drowne

  so that my soule saued may bee.

  The 1614 poem ‘The Ghost of Richard III’ demonstrates the king’s awareness of the inappropriateness of the match.

  Yet to establish and secure my state

  I sought with wilfull lust and powerfull awe

  To crosse the banes [banns] and over-rule the law5

  An anti-Ricardian tragedy, the Roode en Witte Roos, by Lambert van den Bos, published in Amsterdam in 1651, may have been based on a now lost English play, rather than that of Shakespeare. Richard’s wooing of Elizabeth is gentler than in the Bard’s version, conducted at court, in the presence of her mother. The king appears to be a man in love, calling the young woman ‘lovely creature’ and ‘beautiful child in which the world takes pride’. He politely asks her, ‘if it please’ her, to ‘grant him your right hand in marriage’ as a way to possess her father’s throne. Elizabeth, in response, expresses ‘real terror at your vile deed’. While her mother urges her to ‘dissemble, dissemble’, she calls Richard mad and states she cannot forget his ‘evil deeds’, threatening to ‘pierce [his] cursed entrails’.6

  Then there is the question of Elizabeth’s private feelings. What would her motives have been for involvement with her uncle and how would her mother, Elizabeth Wydeville, have viewed this? With Buck’s letter discounted, the simple answer is that we do not know for certain how Elizabeth felt. Traditionally, she has been portrayed as passive and reactive, along with the glorification of her beauty and gentle qualities, creating a degree of ambiguity about her character. Perhaps there is a good reason for it. As the mother of the Tudor monarchs, later accounts have been coloured by the dynasty’s dependence on her lineage and the vilification of Richard III. Any relationship she willingly entered with Richard would have been a source of deep embarrassment to subsequent generations. Yet again, the question of hindsight is central to understanding her actions at Christmas 1484; even as late as the following summer, there were no guarantees that Henry Tudor’s bid for the throne would be successful. Richard was the reigning king and, at the age of thirty-one, might anticipate at least another decade in power. Evidence to suggest that he contemplated marriage with his niece has recently been explored seriously by historians, where it has previously been dismissed as impossible. Some have concluded that Elizabeth was urged into the match by her mother, who coveted the crown for her. The princess had been raised in the expectation of queenship and the recent decades proved that fortunes could quickly turn and opportunities had to be capitalised on. With the Wydeville power on the decline, it may be that Elizabeth and her mother saw this as a last chance to seize some sort of security for themselves. The imperatives of survival and propagation could not be overlooked in a world where illness and death, accident and conflict played such a prominent role. Nor can it be ruled out that Elizabeth was released from confinement in order to seduce her uncle.

  To the modern mind, there is an obvious impediment to such a relationship. Richard was, of course, Elizabeth’s uncle by blood, not just through marriage. While his marriage to Anne had, in theory, required several dispensations, his affinity to Elizabeth was closer but was still not considered prohibitive according to the standards of the medieval Catholic Church. It was within the power of the Pope to grant a dispensation for alliances of this nature, so although i
t would not contravene religious codes, it was still rare. Richard had already understood the need to provide the correct papal documents for his marriage to Anne: some still argue they were incomplete, although their union went unchallenged at the time. Marriages between those connected in the first degree went against the grain of popular sentiment. Pairs of brothers and sisters did marry but Henry VIII’s marital trials illustrate just how problematic they could prove. The rumours appear to have provoked disgust in Richard’s contemporaries, with his council uniting against the idea and close advisers, Catesby and Ratcliffe, warning him of a possible public backlash. In the event, Richard appears to have listened to them, issuing strongly worded public denials that he had ever considered Elizabeth as a wife.

  In January 1485, though, any affair was at its height. Whether fuelled by mutual passion, ambition or the imperative for an heir, if Richard and Elizabeth had become entangled, they were committing adultery. As Hall stated, one thing ‘withstood’ Richard’s desires. Anne, his queen, was still alive. It cannot have been a happy time for her. In the last weeks of her life, she cannot have been unaware of the extent of the rumours, which perhaps contributed to her rapid decline soon after Epiphany. Croyland reported that her sorrow was exacerbated by Richard’s cruelty: she was ‘extremely sick … [and] still more and more because the king entirely shunned her bed’, on the advice of his physicians. This has the ring of truth. If Anne was in the final stages of a terminal illness, that is exactly the recommendation they would have made, for her benefit and his. The chronicler added that the queen understood that she had become a burden to her husband, so ‘soon became a burden to herself and wasted away’, while Hall would later report that daily quarrels took place between the couple. If the success of their relationship had hinged upon the existence of Edward, his death was the catalyst for its rapid disintegration. This does suggest that the marriage had been one of expediency, on Richard’s side, at least. It was Anne’s tragedy if this possible ill feeling and estrangement coincided with the deterioration of her health.

  Yet the case for the couple’s estrangement is based in gossip. The rumours originated with Croyland and were repeated by Vergil and Hall, thus entering popular legend. To quote Richard Marius, the king was ‘crucified by hearsay’. The second half of 1484 had already demonstrated that Tudor agents were actively spreading rumours ahead of the intended invasion, and the reports of his liaison with his niece must also be considered in the light of this and other, later, defamations. A 1614 poem, ‘The Ghost of Richard III’, states that although Anne’s presence ‘did deny’ his match with his ‘fayre niece’, he had some genuine feeling for her, especially as she weakened. The two approaches are not necessarily incompatible, as Richard’s position as king may have come into conflict with his private relationship with his wife. On one hand, he may have genuinely loved her and grieved at her worsening illness, while being unable to avoid the dynastic ramifications of her death. As a king under threat, survival was uppermost in his mind that Christmas; to deny that life would go on after Anne’s tragic and untimely death would have been to fail in his duty. The poem goes further; the queen

  fell sodaine sicke with griefe or jealousie;

  and all my love would not preserve her breathe.

  Worse still, this sensational version affirms that Anne’s low fertility had been a bone of contention between them, for which she was taking some sort of remedy. The results of this, according to the author, were startling and give another interpretation of Richard’s presence in, or absence from, her bed:

  I gave her medicines for sterilitie

  And she grew fruitfull in the bed of death

  Her issue crawling worms.

  The derivation for this bizarre image is unknown, as is the precise use of the term ‘issue’. If, as the poem implies, Anne was pregnant on her deathbed, then it follows that some stillbirth or miscarriage is intended. His medical advisers would have certainly counselled the king not to sleep with Anne if there was any suspicion of pregnancy, advice which was commonly given to couples of all walks of life. The meaning of ‘fruitfull’ did not necessarily imply pregnancy then, though, as its alternative uses were simply to do with creation and production in other forms. The poet may be implying, ironically, that in her illness the medicines only brought forth worms, which ‘issued’ from her body, thus mocking his hopes for a pregnancy. If there was an original English source for this poem, it is now lost and no other source suggests that Anne had conceived shortly before her death. Most other accounts agree that it was the lack of a child that lay at the root of the couple’s problems.

  From what actual evidence survives, it is not possible to conclude that Richard and Elizabeth had an affair, or that he intended to marry her, or she him. Buck’s letter is too full of holes to be useful and its provenance may have been doubtful, to say the least. What can be asserted is that, along with Anne, the pair were at Westminster that Christmas, where rumours circulated about their relationship, which the king later refuted. Some people clearly believed them. Croyland paraphrased how, that spring, Richard was obliged to call a council meeting at Clerkenwell to address his ‘intention of contracting a marriage with his niece Elizabeth’ which had ‘never once entered his mind’. The chronicler states that some present ‘very well knew the contrary’ and had told Richard ‘to his face’ that the people of the North would ‘rise in rebellion against’ his desire to ‘gratify an incestuous passion for his said niece’, summoning twelve Doctors of Divinity to support their case. Croyland roots this objection in self-preservation. It was feared, by men like Ratcliffe and Catesby, that if Elizabeth of York became queen, she would seek to ‘avenge upon them’ the deaths of her relatives. Also there were indications that the North would rise in rebellion to prevent the match. Just before before Easter, ‘in [the] presence of the mayor and citizens of London, in the great hall of the Hospital of Saint John’, the king made ‘the said denial in a loud and distinct voice’. The nature of his private feelings can only be a matter for speculation.

  The Elizabeth of York episode presents a further challenge when it comes to the interpretation of Richard’s marriage. Looking at Anne’s relationship with him as a whole, from their childhood years at Middleham, through the separation caused by Warwick’s Lancastrian fling, into their marriage and glorious Coronations at Westminster and York, the events of late 1484 and early 1485 make for uncomfortable reading. They appear to represent a sudden change in character by the king, a decisive rejection of his wife of a decade. This, in turn, forces a reassessment of their motives in entering the union and their priorities at different stages of their life-cycles. Of course, much had changed since the couple spoke their vows as teenagers in the spring of 1472. Richard and Anne were undoubtedly close from the mid-1460s, when they sat together at the table for the Cawood Castle feast, and Richard was a member of Warwick’s household. A match may have been Anne’s father’s ultimate intention, although this was superseded by that of Isabel and Clarence and became redundant when his loyalties changed. There is not enough evidence to suggest the couple formed a romantic attachment during their youth, yet this does not mean it did not happen. When they did marry, the question of love and affection may not even have arisen. For royalty and the aristocracy, issues of pedigree and inheritance were far more important than companionship, which could be found elsewhere. Through the next decade, the pair’s mutual goals allowed them to fulfil the contemporary roles of Lord and Lady of the Manor, continuing their line and upholding the peace. Even after the events of 1483, when Richard’s new status forced a change in their priorities, the initial months appear to have been harmonious. Until this point, it is possible to speculate that the Gloucesters had a happy, successful marriage. At least, there is little to imply otherwise.

  What continues to bind a couple together for over a decade? Then, as now, love and attraction are the primary factors, overriding the fluctuations of ‘better and worse’. In a less romantic sense, habit, compa
tibility, children and shared mores establish an exclusive connection that remains successful as long as it is satisfying to both partners. Nor does this remain static; it must evolve as those concerned change and age. Yet, in the fifteenth century, for individuals like Richard and Anne, this was not enough. The primary function of a marriage was religious and dynastic. It was intended to safeguard against various sexual ‘sins’ and to legitimise any children born in order to facilitate inheritance. The Gloucesters had been able to produce only one surviving heir. With Edward’s death, their marital equilibrium began to unravel. Additionally, the balance of priorities had shifted massively for Richard. His initial reluctance to accept the throne in the summer of 1483 has been portrayed by Shakespeare, and accepted by many, as disingenuous, but an alternative reading might highlight a tension between Richard’s ambition and the enormity of the transformation such a role would bring. As Duke of Gloucester, he had been no stranger to responsibility but, as king, his private self was, of necessity, moderated by the good of the ‘common weal’. His kingdom was about to be invaded and he had no son to secure his succession. This made him vulnerable.

  The thorny question remains. Did Richard love Anne? If so, why do the rumours suggest that he treated her cruelly in her last months of life? Setting aside the scurrilous stream of gossip that dogged Richard during and after his life, what happened between husband and wife during what must have been, for Anne, a ‘winter of discontent’? If she loved him, the disintegration of their family unit and her health must have been the tragic cost of the crown she now wore. While fifteenth-century definitions of marriage render these responses anachronistic, a modern analysis of his behaviour of 1484–85 cannot avoid such a question. If Richard had loved her, at any point, was this overridden by political imperatives and the need to protect himself and the fragile dynasty from increasing attack? Had his affection been gradually eroded over the course of their years together? Had he married her purely for her inheritance? It would be wrong to assess Richard through a romantic filter when it comes to his marriage; kings did tire of wives they had once loved and seek to replace them with younger models in order to father sons. Elizabeth of York’s own son, Henry VIII, provides enough evidence for this. There is no doubt that he was romantically in love with Catherine of Aragon as a young man, yet their failure to produce a living son undermined his emotion. The desire to qualify the Gloucesters’ relationship as a love match is strong, but there is little evidence to support or disprove such a theory. It is also natural to seek positive interpretations, in the interests of balance, when rejecting the centuries of defamation that had done so much damage to assessments of Richard as a man and a king. It may have been Anne’s tragedy that their previously harmonious marriage did not fit the requirements of a royal match. Richard may have loved her as a wife, but considered that she failed in her primary function as a queen. If any turning point can be identified, the loss of Edward must be it. If they had remained as duke and duchess, the boy’s death would have had predominantly personal ramifications. As king and queen, it opened the kingdom to invasion and conflict. Sadly for them as individuals, the Gloucesters’ marriage was undone by their lack of fecundity. If Anne was Richard’s tragic queen, he was, no less, her tragic husband.