The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1)

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The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 3

by Lesley Nickell


  There was one place she remembered, because she had heard of it before. The city of York, where the Queen had chopped off her grandfather’s head and stuck it on the gate. She could not help looking as they approached the barbican. There were no heads, and in her relief Anne warmed towards the city, despite the imposing scarlet men who greeted them outside with long speeches in an unintelligible tongue.

  And that was nearly the end of their journey. Only one more day on the road remained, and although it was a long day Anne did not suffer as badly as before. The highway was so rough that they had to go very slowly; during the afternoon they abandoned the litters and Anne was taken up before one of the horsemen. She did not mind sitting on a horse, especially with a stout pair of arms steadying her; up there she was safe from the danger of plunging hoofs. The weather was fine, and she watched with comparative interest the sun sinking towards the hills on her left.

  It was dark by the time they reached Middleham, and beyond the bobbing torches carried by the foot-soldiers only the faintly luminous sky was visible. Anne’s head was nodding against the broad chest behind her, and as the horse began to climb toward the darker mass which stood against the sky, she thought drowsily, as she had once thought before, that they were back where they started. But when she had been put to bed and the candle had been blown out, she could not hear the muffled roar of the Avon weir below the castle walls. There was nothing but the breathing of Isabel beside her, and she fell asleep listening to the silence.

  2: RICHARD

  At the top of the slope on the south side of the castle was a curious piece of hummocky land, crowned by hawthorn bushes and thistles. Beyond it the sparse fields rose to the

  vague heather of the skyline. Anne could see it from the battlements above her room, which she could reach by a spiral stair if the door at the top was open. For some reason she never tired of looking at it, and she would stand for hours, her chin and cheek resting on the stone embrasure, gazing at the tangle of leaves and weeds, and thinking. They were not clear thoughts, just a slow pleasant procession of unformed ideas circling round the jumble of hillocks. She had been up on the walls once, dreaming, and never noticed that it was raining until the water began to run down her neck. The leaves on the bushes had been green when she first discovered them, but gradually they had reddened and turned brown, and now they were blowing away, leaving the twigs clad brazenly only in their clusters of scarlet haws.

  There were always swarms of birds around the place, and today they were squabbling over the berries so shrilly that Anne could hear them, though she told them that there were quite enough for all. Her nurse’s heavy step on the stairs brought Anne back abruptly to the castle ramparts. The climb from the floor below had not agreed with her.

  ‘So here you are, lady! Where have you been all this time?’ Anne took it as a rhetorical question and did not answer. ‘There’s your sister all clean and ladylike in her best kersey for our visitor, and you hiding up here as slovenly as a gipsy. Look, there’s a green stain down your smock and a smut on your cheek.’

  She continued to scold as she hurried her charge somewhat dangerously back to the nursery, although as far as Anne could remember nobody had notified her of an important occasion this afternoon. Trying not to flinch as the nurse brushed the tangles from her hair, she learned from Isabel what a momentous event she had not heard about.

  ‘How could you forget, Anne! His grace the King’s own brother coming to live here and you say you didn’t know! He’s a duke now, the Duke of Gloucester, so he’s very important.’

  ‘Not as important as our father?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not, but one day he may be nearly as important. That’s why the King has sent him here.’ Isabel continued to talk, twisting her fingers together as she did when she was excited, while Anne was stripped and dressed again in something presentable, a closefitting brown woollen gown which cut her under the arms. So there was another like King Edward. A second Cousin Edward, permanently striding through the quiet castle and laughing loudly at inexplicable jokes, touching her and glancing at her in his disturbing way; the prospect was unnerving. A brown velvet cap was pulled over her hair, and the girls were driven along the passage to their mother’s withdrawing chamber, where they were patted and tweaked anew for the Countess’s benefit. Then they followed her over the wooden bridge, which made Anne a little queasy each time she crossed it, into the keep.

  In the great hall her father was pacing impatiently, and although no one actually said that it was Anne’s fault they were late, she felt every eye on her accusingly. She could not help seeing her father - she would have known he was there with her eyes shut - but she kept looking at the floor as they went to meet him. The presentations were made: his grace the Duke of Gloucester, my lady the Countess of Warwick, the Lady Isabel your cousin; and Anne spied a chicken bone and a bead from a broken rosary half submerged in the rushes. She put out her toe to find if there were any more beads.

  ‘The Lady Anne your younger cousin.’ Anne thumped ungracefully to her knees, and a pair of dusty boots stepped before her.

  ‘His hand,’ Isabel hissed from above, ‘you must kiss his hand.’ And there it was, quite a small hand, without any of the rings which adorned his brother’s. As she saluted him her gaze travelled upwards, not very far, over the grey hose and sage-green tunic, to the chain of office which was too big for the narrow shoulders, and the thin pointed face. But surely it was her own sensation of startled relief reflected in those serious eyes. He was only a boy, older than she but not by many years, and as different from his opulent brother as this castle was from the galleries of Greenwich. Her father was making his speech of introduction.

  ‘My lord the King has done us great honour by entrusting his grace of Gloucester to our care. His grace is to live here as part of our household. You are to treat him with the deference due to a brother, as he will serve you with the duty of a squire.’ Other people made suitable replies - the Countess, the Master of Henchmen who would be in charge of the Duke’s training, the tall dragonfly of a chamberlain. His grace of Gloucester said nothing. That too was unlike his brother Edward.

  His arrival brought into focus the other preparations of which Anne had hardly taken account, since they were clearly for comings and not goings. The tiltyard had been weeded and sanded, the dilapidated quintain painted in shiny new colours, and straw targets were set up in the outer bailey. There were extra musicians to play to the company dining in the great hall, and extra faces at table too, although Anne had been too shy either to take them in or to ask about them. Several were boys of roughly the Duke of Gloucester’s age, and Anne now realised that they had come to share his schooling.

  She and Isabel also formed an essential part of the curriculum. There was less time for her favourite occupation of standing on the ramparts and thinking. The girls were required as appreciative audiences at archery contests and tilts, they were trodden-upon partners at dancing lessons, and subjects for experiments in table service. They began learning on their own account also: reading, embroidery and playing the lute. The private lessons Anne found quite tolerable, although Isabel complained; with the public appearances it was different. Isabel was not at all averse to playing knights and ladies. For Anne, who had always been left in the shadows to her own devices, this regimented thrusting into the limelight was new and uncomfortable. Every dance and combat was something of an ordeal.

  There were only half a dozen lads in the Earl of Warwick’s school of chivalry, but so reluctant was Anne to look at them that they seemed at least double that number. Despite their names ringing round the great hall and tiltyard, she could identify none of them, except of course the Duke of Gloucester. Perhaps because Isabel was taller than the Duke he was paired with his younger cousin quite often. And she could not forget, boy though he was, that he was King Edward’s brother. He showed no trace of Edward’s charm, of his embarrassing forwardness; he had never addressed a single word to her beside the formal e
xchanges which were part of the code of courtesy. Yet she could not escape the inner knowledge that he was among the greatest in the land and she was unworthy of him.

  On odd occasions she would still escape to the corners of the castle where she could be sure of solitude. Winter was drawing on and her favourite spot on the walls was too exposed for long vigils; there was another place overlooking a small neglected outer courtyard where she could wedge herself between two buttresses in comparative shelter.

  She made her way there on a chilly morning a few weeks after the Duke’s arrival. Bundled up in the miniver border of her cloak was the precious billet of wood which she took to bed with her and talked to when nobody was listening. Before she could settle down to a quiet conversation there was a noise below her. In a spurt of annoyance at the intrusion on her refuge, she saw that someone was down in the courtyard, where no one ever went, playing with a sword.

  No, not playing, for it was a full-sized broadsword, and the child who was handling it - he was no more than a child - could hardly lift it with both hands. Even from a distance Anne could tell the effort which was involved, the feeble straining muscles, the panting breath. It was the Duke of Gloucester. Suddenly Anne knew that she should not have been there. It was as if she had stumbled into a confessional and overheard thoughts so intensely private that only God should hear them. And in the wake of that instinct to run away came an uprush of the same emotion with which her kitten and deposed King Henry had touched her. This time it was so strong as to be a physical pain, which brought tears to her eyes. Catching up her billet she blundered away, leaving the King’s brother to his lonely exercise.

  He was far from an outstanding pupil. Being the smallest and most slightly-built of the lads, he had little of the sheer physical strength needed to control a horse or draw a bowstring. What to the other boys was an exciting challenge was to him an arduous labour. It was this, and not his rank, that set him apart. No longer dazzled by awe, Anne was aware for the first time of someone beside herself who did not fit effortlessly into the expected pattern of life. She noticed how he took criticism without comment and, instead of discussing it with his companions, went off into a corner to work at correcting his fault. In recreation time after supper in the great hall he did not join the groups playing chess, or romping like puppies, but sat alone. Sometimes a long-legged boy called John kept him company; though they talked a little, in the main they were a silent pair. From a stool beside her mother on the dais, clutching her grubby piece of embroidery, Anne watched him. She wondered whether John shared his secret; and if he would be angry at knowing that she did too.

  The first of December brought snow. For six days without pause they were marooned amid the aimless and inexorable flakes. If Anne stared long enough out of a window the castle seemed to be floating slowly upwards into the whirling grey sky. Outdoor activities were abandoned, and the great hall was rather louder than usual with boys venting surplus energy. On the feast of St Nicholas the snow stopped, though the heavy sky promised more, and Anne took the opportunity to slip up to the ramparts above the nursery. She was intrigued to find out what so much snow had done to her favourite view.

  It was transformed. In the wonder of that smooth white coverlet which lay over the broken land she forgot to shiver at the icy air. And her special place was the most beautiful of all. It was a confection of whipped-up meringue peaks, decorated with crystallised sugar tracery, like the subtleties that adorned the high table on feast-days.

  ‘Look, Kat.’ She poked the head of her billet out of her cloak; not too far, in case it caught cold. ‘How pretty our place is. Like a magic castle.’

  ‘Yes. I expect it was a castle once.’ Kat did not usually answer aloud nor with such originality. Anne glanced down at it in surprise. But the billet had remained mute, and it was a human voice which had responded to her thoughts. The King’s brother was standing behind her, gazing as raptly as she had been doing at the snowy landscape. ‘That hump in the middle, you see, was the keep, and then there was a moat in the dip, and the bumps all round it were the outer fortifications.’ He pursued his theory, pointing out the features as he mentioned them.

  ‘It must have been a very small castle,’ said Anne shyly, half caught up in his enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s because the people in the old days were small - like the fairy folk,’ explained the Duke with conviction.

  ‘Were they as small as us?’

  ‘I expect so. But they were valiant fighters and good at building things.’ He paused, and they both stared at the snow-castle built by fairy folk. Then be said diffidently, ‘Would you like to go up there with me one day? Then we could look at it properly.’

  ‘Oh yes! Kat would like that.’ Anne had not stopped to consider that no one in the world knew about Kat except herself. ‘And so would I.’

  ‘When the snow is gone, then.’ The Duke did not ask who Kat was.

  Random flakes of snow were meandering about their heads, and he said suddenly, ‘You must go in now, or you’ll take a chill.’ Although Anne’s nurse had used the same words a hundred times she did not feel at all chastened, but rather gratified that someone should have noticed she was shivering.

  So now they both shared a secret: Anne had watched the Duke’s practising, and he had heard her talking to Kat. Neither mentioned it to the other, indeed they spoke no more in public than they had done before, but they sensed it between them each time he took her hand for a dance or knelt beside her at table with a finger-bowl. And there was the promise of the expedition to the castle when the snow went away.

  There was no sign of its going. After the lull at St Nicholas snow fell every day until the last week of Advent. When at last the clouds lifted their swollen bellies from the hills, the bailey was suddenly swarming with men in bright hoods and mufflers, and there was the scraping of shovels as they cleared the drifts away.

  It was nearly a week before the roads to Richmond and York were passable. On the day when the first messenger from her father arrived Anne suffered a major loss. She should not have taken Kat to the garderobe, but she had forgotten that the billet was wrapped in the corner of her cloak until it slithered out and rolled, very gently, over the side of the stone ledge. Peering after it she was met with thick darkness and an acrid odour. There was no chance of recovery. All the way to the nursery she held back the tears, but by the bed in which she had so often fallen asleep with the hard pressure of Kat under her chin, she let them flow. Neither the scathing glances of her sister nor the disapproval of the nurse could stem them, and finally the Countess was called to her errant younger child. Having laid her hand on Anne’s forehead, she pronounced her daughter sick and ordered her to be put to bed, and bled if she was not better by evening. Then she returned to her embroidery. The threat of bleeding nearly scared Anne out of her grief, but after she was left in the darkened room with a cold compress on her head, it came back in full force.

  Several hours later the tears were exhausted, and since the only signs of illness now were occasional dry hiccups, she was declared cured and haled down to supper. Of course she could not eat a thing. She sat and stared at her platter, seeing nothing but the slow inevitable roll of Kat towards the precipice.

  Submerged in her sorrow, she was unconscious of the concerned regard of the Duke of Gloucester beside her. Later on he came to her when the other children were involved in a noisy game.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I’ve lost Kat,’ she said bleakly.

  ‘Perhaps I can find her for you.’

  Anne shook her head. ‘No. It’s gone.’

  The Duke frowned at her for a moment, his wide mouth compressed. Then he said, ‘I have an idea. But we should have to ask John. Do you mind?’ Anne looked at him. He was not making fun of her. His face was very serious. She decided to trust him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll ask him tonight.’

  Although he did not approach her again that evening, she was so curiou
s as to what he would do with John’s help that she only thought about Kat every other minute, instead of all the time.

  The snow had frozen, and outdoor activities were still curtailed. Hunting, however, was possible in all weathers, and the following morning the lads rode out to chase foxes, rabbits, or deer if they could find them, up the blanketed dale. But Anne was not forgotten. Before dawn she was sitting in the nursery with Isabel, having her hair tugged into plaits, when the Duke came in. The girls’ attendants looked askance at each other, but because of who he was they withdrew.

  John was with him, and they were both cloaked and booted ready for the hunt. After apologising formally for interrupting her toilet, he said, ‘Show her, John.’ The other lad produced something from beneath his cloak and put it into her hands. It was a miniature horse, carved in wood, unpolished and naïve but definitely a horse, its neck and tail stretched expectantly. ‘He carves with his dagger,’ explained the Duke, ‘when he has nothing else to do.’ The wood-carver stood and nodded, his long sombre face trying not to show his pride in his work. Evidently the King’s brother had found a friend yet more silent than he was himself. ‘If you like, he’ll make you a poppet.’ Anne turned the little horse over, touching the mane and heavy fetlocks. Then she looked up at the two boys, who were waiting almost apprehensively for her answer. With a flash of insight she guessed that John’s carving was another secret. She smiled, for the first time since yesterday afternoon.

  ‘Thank you.’ They smiled too, at each other and then at her. The horse was returned to its creator, and the boys went off to their hunting.

 

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