Virgin Widow

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘No.’ He sighed on an exhalation.

  ‘Then why should it for me? Tell me this, Richard. Did you ever love me? Do you love me still?’

  ‘How can you doubt me?’ His eyes, stark with dismay, glinted in the dim light, but he would not turn away from the accusation in my face. ‘Anne…what choice have we with my brother and your father facing each other across a battlefield?’

  ‘I know!’ My anger segued into despair, my biting words of blame into a stifled sob. ‘And my father planning to lift the crown from Edward’s head. The worst of treachery.’

  ‘God damn Warwick to the fires of hell!’

  ‘But he’s my father. He demands my duty and my affection.’

  ‘So he might, but he has effectively destroyed any happiness we might have had together.’ My hands flat against his chest felt the anger, so far held in check, build to fill his whole frame, until the thunderous beat of his heart matched mine. ‘Never doubt my love, Anne,’ he murmured. ‘It is yours and will be for all time. This wounds me as much as it hurts you. And it destroys me that I can do nothing to comfort you.’

  ‘Richard! It’s time…’

  He raised his head at Francis’s voice beyond the door. We could not linger. I could sense the urgency in him, even as his hands gentled to tender. Was there nothing more I could do or say?

  ‘Will you take this?’ I tugged off a little ring, a plain gold circle set with a ruby, even though it was far too small for a man’s hand. I pushed it, not without some difficulty as it caught on his knuckle, on to his little finger. ‘Will you wear it?’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  A last kiss. One final embrace. A desperate bruising of my lips as Richard claimed me as his for that last time. No joy, no sweet promise. Just a cruel ending. Until he framed my face in his hands.

  ‘I must go.’ He kissed my damp cheeks, the soft hollow of my temple, my eyelids. ‘I think it was your eyes I fell in love with. So dark, yet so full of light when you looked at me. I fell the whole way into them and now I think I cannot escape. Yet I must…God keep you, my love. God keep you safe.’

  I could not bear it. So he would be honourable and self-sacrificing, would he? He would set me free. I did not want this, I did not want to be sacrificed.

  ‘Richard…’

  But I did not know what more to say when there was nothing to be said. I released him as if his flesh burned my fingers, and clutching at pride I drew myself up to my full height. After all, he was a Prince of the Blood, whilst I was a mere subject, and a disloyal one at that. I sank to the stone paving in formal obeisance.

  Catching up his cloak and hat from the bench, Richard would have gone, left me. Pre-empting him, I pounced and snatched up his embroidered leather gauntlets. He held out his hands for them.

  I shook my head, turning the soft kid leather over and over in my grasp. There was the white boar, Richard’s heraldic badge, shimmering in its satin stitching on the cuff, stiff and powerful with gilt tusks, yet so impotent in its rigid embroidery. The creature blurred when tears welled.

  He laughed softly, a joyless sound. ‘So you would steal my gloves?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hid them behind my back.

  ‘They’re too big for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  He knew why I wanted them. Richard always understood me. ‘Then keep them, if it brings you comfort.’

  I saw pity in Richard’s eyes. And despised it. I flattened the gauntlets against my breast, but my mind shrieked. This is not enough. How can this be all I have of you for the rest of my life? A pair of gloves the only solace for a lifetime of regret.

  ‘Adieu, your Grace.’ I would not weep again in his presence.

  ‘Farewell, my lady. My love.’

  I closed my eyes to shut out the reality of his leaving me. And Richard was gone. All I could do was to sink to my knees on the altar step where I stayed until I heard the bustle of departure die away, then ran quickly up to the battlements again to watch, remaining there until I could no longer see his figure for the tears that turned my sight to blindness. If he looked back, I did not see him. If he raised his arm in farewell, I was not aware. There was only one thought that echoed and re-echoed in my head. If I was indeed fated to live out my life in exile, I would never see him again. It seemed to me that there was a strange emptiness in my chest where my heart had been, a vast wilderness that nothing would ever fill it. I pushed my hands into the gloves, hoping to absorb the warmth of his hands there, but the fur linings were already cold. Sobs shook me until I could barely stand.

  In her wisdom the Countess allowed me to indulge my misery alone on the windy stretch of the battlement walk, until I was sufficiently chilled and wretched and trailed down to where she waited for me.

  ‘He has gone.’ I sniffed, hoping my veil would hide the worst of the ravages, as I stuffed the gloves into the bodice of my gown.

  ‘I know.’

  She placed a hand against my cheek. One look at my face and she swept me off to the kitchens, sat me down at the rough table, and poured me a cup of wine whilst the cook placed before me a bowl of broth. I sat in mutinous refusal to be comforted. Ignoring the surprised glances of the kitchen servants and the damage to her skirts, my mother pulled up a stool at my side, grasped my shoulders and forced me to look at her.

  ‘Drink the wine, Anne. And eat.’

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘Yes, he has gone. You must accept it. You’ll not feel any better for the food, but you need strength and determination now, as you have never done before.’

  Nothing could have persuaded me more of the hopelessness of my love. ‘He has left me…’ I could hear the misery rising again in my voice.

  ‘Yes, he has.’ There was no sympathy, only an implacable will. ‘Richard has no choice to make, Anne. Loyalty demands that he follow the King.’

  ‘I need him,’ I stated simply.

  ‘No, you don’t. You must learn to live without him and you will. But now I need you. You will not let this press you into the ground. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes.’ I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve.

  The Countess stood, but halted to look down at me. ‘If our lives are to be forfeit for my lord’s actions, I need to rely on you. I cannot have you malingering over Richard.’ Her eyes bore into mine. ‘So eat!’

  The Countess’s demands on duty and pride stiffened my courage. Although it was an effort not to choke on the pottage, I ate, and after a moment to see that I would obey, the Countess went about her own affairs. But as she left, and as I mopped up the final dregs of the broth, she leaned close in passing and kissed my hair. She understood. She knew about heartbreak and separation and loss.

  ‘He has not left you through any lack of love. I saw it in him when he came from the chapel. He is as wounded as you.’

  It was some sort of balm to my heart, but not much.

  In the end we fled for our lives.

  We gathered together what we would need, as well as bags of gold coin and the Neville jewels. Only God would know if we would ever return to our home here and it might be that we would need all the wealth we could carry. Then we sat tight with our banners fluttering bravely on the towers, but the wagons packed and defeat in our hearts as we fretted with short tempers and wakeful nights. I did not even have Isabel to sharpen my tongue against.

  ‘We march south,’ Warwick ordered when he finally arrived with a surly and glowering Clarence. No time for greetings. ‘Can you be ready within the hour? Edward is on the hunt for us. We are defeated. We sail for Calais.’ He looked beyond weary.

  ‘Is Edward not disposed to show mercy?’ the Countess asked.

  ‘No.’ There was no attempt to soften the words. ‘I rejected Edward’s demand that I face him, you see. He has an army of such size that I’m not strong enough to challenge him. Edward denounces us as traitors and will deal with us as such if we fall into his hands. If you raise arms against the King a second time and fail…’ Now he look
ed directly at my mother. ‘It must be Calais, for all of us. Who knows when we will return to England again?’

  So there were no more words or minutes to waste. How could I ask about Richard’s whereabouts, whether he had survived the battle, when faced with this disaster? We were gone within the day, the start of a long and tragic journey that would lead us to the unexpected rejection in the sullen seas off Calais. To a difficult birth and a dead child and a bitter acceptance of our new lives as traitors to the English Crown.

  Chapter Seven

  May 1469

  BUT life must go on and we must find refuge. So here we sat in a lively sea, waiting for the tide off the French port of Honfleur, nothing less than fugitives dependent on the good will or greedy self-interest of King Louis of France, with my anxious query snatched up by the wind.

  ‘Will we be made welcome?’

  And the Earl’s unfathomable reply. ‘You, my daughter, will be made welcome at all events.’

  I did not understand. What was clear, even to me, was that all would hang on whatever deal the Earl could make with King Louis, whether King Louis was even willing to come to an agreement with a landless and attainted lord.

  ‘Louis will receive us at Amboise,’ the Earl announced. ‘But there will be a price to pay.’

  A price. I considered it, turning it over in my mind. What would the price be? And who would pay it? On reflection it seemed an obvious answer. The first sacrifice to be made would be my father’s pride.

  ‘Welcome. My inestimable Cousin of Warwick. And his Grace of Clarence, too, of course. It pleases me to see you here. Come, my lord Earl, and introduce your family to me. Then you will eat at my table…’

  I had expected the royal fortress of Amboise to be magnificent, in the way of Warwick Castle, with new spacious wings, low-ceilinged and large-windowed, to add a range of comfortable family apartments to the original defensive towers and keep. Throughout all the years of his service to the Yorkist cause, my father had pushed King Edward into joining forces with France, to create the most powerful alliance in Europe. If that was so, then Louis must live in considerable grandeur and wealth.

  So Amboise was a shock. Magnificent, yes, in an overpowering way like Middleham. A formidable fortress, true, but little beyond that, reminding me of the dominant bulk of the Tower of London, a place where I would never care to live. The round towers of Amboise, the high walls, the deep moat, were all vast and forbidding, without softness. Was this to be my future home? I prayed it would not.

  We were shown to a suite of small, sparsely furnished rooms in one of the towers, hardly more accommodating than our little border fortress of Penrith, our meagre luggage unloaded and brought after us. We were a particularly joyless party. Isabel still pale and fretful, still mourning the loss of her child and unresponsive towards any who tried to comfort her. Clarence, all his ambitions to take the Crown for himself having died a death unless my father could work some miracle, prowled in a fury of ill temper. The Earl, thin lipped and caustic, waited for the royal summons. Amidst all, the Countess worked to preserve a calm façade.

  Almost before we had time to draw breath and consider the state of our travel-worn appearance, a dignified official in severe black fetched us to be presented to his Majesty. I regretted the salt-stained hem of my gown, the dusty folds and grimy veil. My mother, beating at her skirts with the flat of her hand, groaned when she noticed the matted state of one of her sleeves that had trailed in some noxious substance. But then I saw the muscles of her jaw grow taut. Was not our blood and lineage enough to take us into the royal presence? I could not quite follow her example. We might have had all the confidence in the world, all the high blood of an old family, but we were still beggars, homeless, dependent on the magnanimity of this man who summoned us to attend him in the rigid formality of the Chamber of State.

  ‘Welcome. My Cousin of Warwick…’ The man’s voice, of a clear light timbre, carried effortlessly down the length of the room.

  ‘Is that the King of France?’ I whispered to my mother, aghast as the same man stepped down from the dais beside the lofty fireplace and advanced to greet the Earl. My only impersonal acquaintance with kingship was the impressive stature and love of display that belonged to King Edward. Did not all kings look like Edward and conduct themselves with such majesty? ‘Can that be King Louis?’ I repeated below my breath, stunned at my first sight of him.

  ‘Hush.’ The Countess’s lips twitched.

  I had heard him described as the Spider. Well, he was ugly enough with a large nose, long and hooked, that dominated his face and took the eye so that it was difficult to look elsewhere. His own eyes were downturned at the corners and heavy lidded, effectively disguising what they might show of his thoughts. At this moment he was smiling benignly at my father but in repose I was soon to see that his mouth also turned down, as if in perpetual disfavour of the world. For certain, he was neither handsome nor impressive. His robe was plain and undecorated. His stature meagre. His hair was hidden under a close felt hat, as any merchant in London might wear. No hint of superior majesty here, with only one servant to attend him.

  Yet my future was to be dictated by this man.

  ‘My lord Warwick. So many months since we last met. So much ill fortune for you to suffer.’ His condolences were gentle, reassuring of his kindness. The King waved us towards the warmth of the fire. ‘I trust your accommodation is to your liking. I will provide anything I can to add to your ease at this unfortunate time.’

  And this too took my interest—his closeness to the Earl. He had addressed him as Cousin in spite of everything. This powerful man was receiving us at his Court with such generosity, as if we were his equal in status and influence rather than the truth of it. The Earl completed the introductions. We curtsied to the floor. When we rose I found Louis’s sharp hazel eyes trained on me. Uncomfortable with the fierce scrutiny, I looked down at his extremely large feet.

  ‘Ah…’ He walked slowly forwards to stand in front of me. ‘Look up, my dear. Lady Anne…Your unmarried daughter, you say, Warwick?’

  ‘She is as yet unmarried.’

  ‘But of an age to be wed.’

  Obedient to the order, I looked up. For a moment behind the smiling façade, Louis looked like a cat contemplating a meal of a particularly tasty mouse under its claws. His self-satisfaction shone clear as his smile widened.

  ‘Lady Anne. A charming young woman.’

  I swallowed nervously.

  ‘You are not married, but is there a betrothal?’ he asked me. ‘Is there some young lord in England who hopes to wed you?’

  Richard. I will not think of Richard. If I do I will weep for the loss of him.

  ‘No, your Majesty, there is no betrothal.’

  ‘Good. Then we will have to see what we can do.’

  I could make nothing of this beyond the possibility of a son of a noble French family as my future husband. It held only a mild interest for me. Far more critical to my mind was what exactly this remarkably ugly but all-powerful man would demand in return for his slippery hand of friendship towards my father. We did not have to wait long to discover. With warm geniality we were invited to sit with him at his banquet as if the Earl were indeed the favoured cousin Louis dubbed him. Louis began to play his hand immediately with a magnificent cunning that even I could read.

  ‘Sit by me, my lord of Warwick. Take a goblet of wine. And your Countess and fair daughters. Be seated and at ease.’ He signalled to the servants to pour wine and serve the first course. Only then did he sketch a brief gesture towards Clarence, indicating a chair further along the board, as if he were not the brother of the King of England. ‘And you too, your Grace. You’ll have an interest in our debates.’ Louis settled himself in the solid, plainly fashioned chair at the head of the table and rubbed the palms of his thin hands together. ‘We have much to discuss, much to decide. Where better to have a meeting of minds than over a dish of roast meats?’

  In this manner, over
a course of frumenty with venison and a side dish of Vyaund Cyprus, he opened the delicate negotiation with my father as if they were alone and intimate in a private chamber, driving his own policies forwards to the exclusion of all else. I watched his manner of achieving his own way, astonished that a man who had so little presence could dictate the proceedings so effectively. He wielded power with all the skill of a needle-sharp rapier in a duel.

  ‘Tell me, cousin…’ Louis drove straight to the heart with that same rapier ‘…how do you see the immediate future for yourself and your family? What are your plans?’

  The key question. A brutal question, forcing my father to face the reality of his precariously balanced position from the outset. The Earl considered the wine in his cup, then answered with direct stare and astonishing openness. ‘The immediate future? Uncertain. Edward is well on his way to restoring his grip on England. So my preference—to return to England soon, before he can tighten his hold further. There are enough who will support the Neville banner if I can make an impression of strength.’

  ‘But how do you see your chances of success, my lord?’ Louis enquired, picking at a stuffed poussin.

  I listened, trying to interpret the meanings behind the innocuous exchange of words. So did the Countess, I noticed, who sat to my right, across from the French King, her concentration more on the two men than on the subtle mix of sugar and spices in the Vyaund. Was it truly possible that we could go home soon and oust Edward yet again? Before my father could consider his reply, it was Clarence who leapt in with hot words.

  ‘We have every chance of success, sire! When we return, my presence in England will attract all who are dissatisfied with Edward.’