by Anne O'Brien
He still wore my ring.
My eyes moved on. Surrounded by guards stood the Prince. He had suffered rough handling. Apparently unhurt but dishevelled, hair awry, one sleeve all but rent from the body of his tunic, he looked less than princely. There was a smear of mud from forehead to chin and the ostrich feathers barely showed through the filth on his breast. Face pale, he stood with guards restraining him, gripping his arms. I knew how he must have hated that.
‘So you would fight against me,’ King Edward broke the silence.
‘I would,’ the Prince snapped. ‘And I will, until there is no more breath in my body.’
‘See!’ The King gestured. ‘A traitor by your own words. You have no right to the crown.’
‘More right than you! My birth is beyond question. You’ll not deny me my birthright.’ Petulance blossomed. His fair skin flushed with anger, his sneer ugly. ‘Challenge me to single combat—if you dare! You know I would be the victor. I am the true King.’
The King tilted his head, considering, lips pressed firm.
‘A traitor condemned out of your own mouth. The penalty for such is death. After victory on the battlefield it is my right to deal out summary justice.’
The threat lay heavy, thick in the air to fill my lungs so that breathing was well-nigh impossible, white hot as a lightning strike. Red as blood. I was held in its grip. So I stood as witness to the final event.
‘The penalty is death!’ the King repeated.
‘You cannot kill me. I claim the right of sanctuary.’
‘There is no sanctuary.’
The Prince stared wildly round. ‘Usurper!’ he spat with no lessening of aggression. ‘I will have my father’s heritage—’
The Prince leapt at the King. With what intent? Impossible to know, but I saw Richard slide a long-bladed dagger from his belt. My attention was gripped and held by that bright metal. I could not look away.
And Richard struck. He buried the long blade in the Prince’s gut, a final vicious upward thrust to pierce his heart. There was a cry. The Prince gasped with shock, eyes wide and staring in pain, in astonishment, his hands clasped tight to the hilt as if he could undo the deed. He slid to the floor in a graceless heap as his blood and his life drained away.
Aghast, I looked at the body. Murder? Was this murder? Blood seeped through the fine linen of his tunic to stain the already mired feathers. It spread on the floor to creep towards me. When I looked down it lapped my shoes; my skirts were spattered by it. Beside the Prince the knife had fallen on the slabs of paving. I was transfixed by it, by the glint of metal through the blood.
I cried out in denial, but whose name I could not hear. Was it the Prince or Richard? No one heard. They turned away, the deed done. In my dream, I was alone with the body of my husband.
I crouched beside him.
Then I was alone no longer. There was the Queen in a sweep of black mourning, touching my shoulder, gripping it in frenzied fingers. ‘So you have seen my son done to death. Gloucester murdered my son. Does this please you? Your lover murdering your husband?’
‘No. It does not please me.’
‘But now you are free. Free to go to him.’
I woke abruptly with dry throat and staring eyes as the horrors of the dream stayed with me. This was not a battlefield killing in hot blood. It was revenge, deliberate blood-soaked murder by Richard’s hand, just as the messenger had told to the Queen. I lay still. If I could, I would have pulled the covers over my head and hidden from the world.
Who would choose, of their own free will, to return to a town the day after a battle? The day after a bloody massacre?
Not I! But that was what I did. Without permission, without any real plan of how I would go about my task. Duty and honour, respect, and all the splendid, glowing qualities instilled in me since birth told me that I should. For good or ill, Edward of Lancaster was my husband and now he was dead.
I took a cloak. Bribed with a handful of gold a reluctant groom, who answered when it suited him to the name of Sim, to saddle two horses, and prepared to make my escape. I did not fear the Queen. So sunk was she in melancholy that she would not notice my absence. And might just thank God that I was gone when she did.
I was about to lead my mount from the stables when my shadow loomed at my shoulder. Beatrice! I had forgotten. The Queen might be out of her mind, but her orders would still stand and Beatrice was nothing if not dutiful.
‘By the Virgin! You frightened me!’ I glared at her as my heart thudded hard enough to choke me. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What am I doing?’ Her perfect brows rose elegantly, at odds with her dishevelled appearance and stained gown. Even her veiling, usually immaculate, was the worse for wear. I dared not think what I looked like. ‘What are you doing, with a horse and an escort?’
‘Going to Tewkesbury.’ There was no point in lying about it.
‘You cannot leave.’
‘I can. I will.’ I turned away and tightened the girth. Until my arm was grasped, fingers digging in.
‘So you are fleeing. I should have known that you were spineless, deserting the Queen when she is most in need.’ Beatrice’s sharp features tightened. Her disgust with me was patent, but so was the fear that we would be captured and would pay the price of all traitors. All of it was channelled into a virulent attack. ‘As treacherous as all Nevilles. It runs in the blood. There’s nothing left for you here now, is there? Once out of here, what’s to stop you throwing yourself on York’s mercy? You have your sister to stand for you and Clarence will have the King’s ear.’ Her accusations built, one on the other. ‘And so I wager has the Duke of Gloucester. He’ll see you as a godsend, a ripe plum dropping from the tree into his hand. A widow now—how fortunate!—and your mother’s heiress. If your mother is attainted as a traitor, your inheritance might come to you quicker than you thought. And Gloucester will not believe his luck.’
The poisonous words hung between us. My fingers stilled on the girth. I had not thought of it. If my mother, secure in Beaulieu, was attainted, then my position as heiress might just become immediate. And as a widow I could wed again…I had not thought of that either. Since I had been wife only in name, being widowed had made no impression on me. My laugh, harsh in its cynicism, must have startled Beatrice, for she released my arm as if I was the bearer of the plague.
It seemed that I had become a valuable commodity again.
But now was not the time for such deep thoughts.
‘I’m not planning to play the traitor, Beatrice. I’m going to find my husband’s body, and when I do I’m going to see that it’s treated in a seemly manner. Have you even considered that?’ I had done nothing but consider it throughout a long night. ‘He is—was—Lancaster’s heir, for all his faults. What has been done with the Prince’s body? Displayed as a spectacle for the townsfolk of Tewkesbury who would mock the naked and despoiled heir of Lancaster?’ The Londoners had flocked to gorge their senses on my father’s heartlessly displayed body. As far as I knew the Prince had been stripped and cast on a town dung heap. ‘Do you want the Prince to lie unburied, with no masses, no comfort for his soul? It is not fitting that he should be degraded in death.’
I mounted. Action had roused my spirit so that I would brook no refusal. ‘Leave go of my rein, Beatrice. Come with me if you must, if your duty insists—or get out of my way.’
I did not want her, but I got her. And perhaps I was not disappointed. Pride would have prevented me from asking for her help, but it was a small comfort not to have to ride into bloodsoaked Tewkesbury alone. A lurid vision of Richard, with his knife buried to the hilt in Edward’s breast, rose once more in my mind.
One day I would have to face it, but not today. I blocked it out.
I had never seen a town in the aftermath of battle, but I had heard tales often enough. Of soldiers running free with the fire of victory in their blood and an excess of ale swilled down their throats to strip away all humanity. But never could I hav
e imagined such wanton destruction. Such careless violence against all who crossed their path. Bodies lay on all sides, limbs tumbled, clothes and possessions of any value plundered, disfigured with wounds. I turned my eyes from those who were children, from the women who lay in an obscene parody of love. I did not need to look to know what had been done. The dead here were not Lancastrian soldiers, caught in flight. These were helpless, unarmed, innocent townsfolk, trapped within the walls, in the nightmare of a victorious army on the loose.
‘Quiet!’ Sim murmured as we picked our way through the streets. ‘Don’t draw attention. Don’t speak to anyone. They won’t ask your name before they hack you to pieces, lady. Or worse…’ It was some consolation that he drew a long-bladed dagger from the side of his boot. I loosened my own where it was tucked into my sleeve so that it came readily to hand. ‘Where do you want to go, lady?’
Sim’s voice dragged my eyes from the sprawled figure of a child, no more than five years, hair matted with blood and face down in the gutter. I forced myself to think. ‘To the market place. Perhaps we need to ask—’
Sim grunted disapproval. ‘I’ll do the asking! Keep a still tongue, lady!’ He hauled on the bridle and rode on. We followed slowly, working our way through the gut-churning mess. Without warning, from a narrow alley off to one side men emerged to surround us. From their leather jerkins they were soldiers, but if they had ever recognised authority, it was gone now. Hands grasped my bridle, snatched at Beatrice’s. My horse jibbed and tossed its head against the restraint.
‘Look what we’ve got ‘ere, lads. Fine horses. Finer clothes!’
‘Let go of my reins!’ I forgot Sim’s warning.
‘A tasty mouthful! Lively with it!’ A filthy hand grasped my arm to pull me from the saddle. ‘Young, too. Now let’s see what’s under the cloak…’
I drove my heels into the horse’s side so that it bucked and kicked. My attacker swore. Now his hands grabbed my cloak to give him more leverage. At my side, when I had time to notice, Beatrice was suffering similar indignities.
‘Take your hands off me!’ I snarled.
‘Better to talk sweetly, pretty girl. Unless you want to get hurt.’ A sneaky hand curled round my ankle. ‘We deserve a reward. We’ve just won a battle for the King.’ He tugged, almost toppling me from my mount. ‘You’re just the prize I want.’ His grin became feral. ‘My friends ‘ere—you can be their prize, too. Both of you.’ He leered at Beatrice, whose face had gone as pale as death.
I kicked out, but to no avail. Then Sim’s dagger appeared in his hand, flashed in the light. So did mine as I stuck home. I didn’t know where it found flesh, but there was a howl, the splash and warmth of blood, and the hands dropped from my cloak.
‘By Christ! You’ll pay for that…’
Sim was at my side. ‘Get back! If you harm these travellers, you’ll pay with blood. They’re Yorkist—come here at the invitation of the King. So back off!’
It gave our attackers a moment’s thought. We did not wait to see how long, but spurred forwards whilst their attention was lax, careering down the street without thought for those who lay dead or wounded in our path, beneath our hooves.
‘My thanks, Sim,’ I gasped when I could.
‘We’re not out of it, yet. And there’s trouble ahead.’
At the end of the street we could see where it opened out into the market place. There was a commotion with crowds milling, a rumble of voices. As we approached a roar of approval burst from a hundred or more throats. It had an animal satisfaction about it, chilling my already cold blood. Sim waved us to a halt. ‘Wait here. Use the knife if you have to.’
He rode forwards, bent to ask a question of a group of men on the edge of the crowd, listened, asked again, shook his head, then returned.
‘Well?’
‘Lancastrian leaders,’ he replied laconically, which gave me no warning. ‘Taken prisoner—lured from the sanctuary of the Abbey with promises of a pardon, but then condemned to execution as traitors and rebels. This is the punishment now. Beheaded in the market place—all of them.’
It seemed to take for ever to grasp what was happening, but another roar of approval jolted me into awareness.
‘It’s murder…’ Beatrice muttered.
‘Military justice, lady. Gloucester held a trial this morning. They raised arms against the King. It’s treason.’ Sim’s bland acceptance in some ways shocked me more than the deed itself. ‘Doesn’t waste time, does he?’
No. Gloucester had wasted no time in ridding the King of his enemies. But nor could I waste time. I must find the Prince. Only then would I allow myself to think about what I had learned of Richard of Gloucester in the last two days.
‘Where now, lady?’
‘The Abbey. Take me to the Abbey church.’ It was the only place I could think of.
An uneasy calm returned to me. Here I would find help. It was a family place, a sacred place of prayer where my mother’s Despenser and Beauchamp family had come over the generations. So would I, the youngest and least experienced of their noble ranks.
But then we entered the churchyard. There could be no pretence that we were entering sacred ground. I came to an abrupt halt in the gateway to witness more evidence of brutal murder. Bodies covered the grass, piled against weathered headstones. They had fled here for safety, but it had not saved them. My throat slammed shut, my mouth dried.
Sim lifted a careless chin towards the plundered bodies of two men of means, what was left of their clothes dark with dried blood. He hawked and spat on the grass. ‘God damn all Yorkists!’ But I got the impression that he might have said the same of Lancastrians, depending on his company.
‘I can’t believe they would do this.’ By now Beatrice was glassily pale with shock.
‘Believe it, lady.’ Sim sniffed.
We did, when we discovered the door of the Abbey to be locked against us. My blood beating in my throat seemed to me as loud in my ears as Sim hammering on the wood. It took a long time. Footsteps, slow, dragging, approached. They halted behind the door. A long pause that caused Sim to beat again with his fist. A grille was finally opened and one of the monks peered out.
‘Who is it?’
‘Travellers seeking sanctuary,’ Sim replied. ‘Two women.’
‘No sanctuary here. I am bid by my lord Abbot to refuse entry to anyone.’
‘Refuse entry to God’s house?’ I handed my reins to Beatrice and pushed my way past Sim to the grill. ‘Open the door, sir. I would see the Abbot immediately.’
‘I dare not…’
I put back my hood. He would not recognise me—how would he possibly recognise my bedraggled, bloodstained state as one of their noble patrons?—but I hoped that a show of authority would do the trick. ‘I am Lady Anne Neville.’
‘My lady!’ He blinked, startled. ‘What are you doing here? It is not safe!’
My name was the key. The door was opened, barely, and we slipped inside, leaving Sim without to guard our horses.
The monk was all but wringing his hands in distress, his round face impressed with lines of fear and strain. ‘See what they have done. Despoiled, desecrated. There is no sanctuary.’
If the graveyard was bad, this was worse, because through the wanton destruction still shone the solid elegance and grandeur of the church. Like a handsome woman, scarred and disfigured by deliberate mistreatment, yet with the remnants of her beauty still evident. A mob had swept through as a tidal wave, looting and vandalising, hacking down what they could not carry away. Those who stood in their path were savagely dispatched, their blood still staining the floor.
Why was nothing done to prevent this? Why had the King allowed such pollution of a holy place? Shivering, I stepped hurriedly back when I realised that I was standing where a pool of blood had recently spread across the stone paving, fighting to remember why I had come and what I needed to do.
‘I have come to find the Prince’s body.’
‘Lady…’ I saw fear i
n his eyes.
‘Do you know where he is? Where he was taken?’
‘Hush!’ He looked over his shoulder as if expected marauding Yorkists to spring from the walls. ‘Come with me.’
He beckoned and set off at surprising speed for his elderly frame. I followed him away to the left, Beatrice beside me. It was dark and quiet there behind the main altar, unlit, the only sound our own footsteps. The chapels were dark, unused. The monk hurried along, not even turning his head to see if I kept up with him. I was tempted to demand once again to speak with the Abbot, but then ahead I saw the glimmer of candle flame. The monk halted and motioned me into the Lady Chapel, hid from general view behind the High Altar.
‘Here, my lady. We hid him. From those who might steal him away and despoil him.’
There he was. My husband, Margaret’s precious son, on a crude unadorned trestle. His body had been washed, bloodstains removed from face and hands. His tunic, in which they had re-clothed him, stiff, disfigured with blood, bore testimony to his wounds, but the monks had chosen to leave him with the plumed feathers, black on red, of his rank and inheritance. I could not fault them in that, he deserved that much. His face drew my eyes. Impossibly young, colourless and almost translucent, a calmness wrapped him around such as I had never seen in life. The candles at his head burned steadily so that there was no shadow on his features. All the lines had been smoothed from his face by death, leaving him beautiful, at last at peace. I might have felt sorrow, except that in life the Prince had never sought peace, only violent death for his enemies and glorious victory for himself. It seemed that he merely slept, his hands crossed on his breast. They had placed his sword at his side. Someone had combed his hair so that it gleamed with russet warmth. It was the only sign of life as it fluttered a little in the ever-present draught.
‘The Prince was killed here?’ I asked, my voice little more than a croak.
‘Yes, my lady. In the nave.’
‘In King Edward’s presence?’