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

by Lesley Nickell

  ‘But he understands now. That the King did it for the best.’ She was not sure that it was for the best, but she had chosen the right words this time. In a rare spontaneous gesture, Richard put his hand on her arm. His face relaxed.

  ‘Yes. Yes, whatever he does must be for the best. He would never do anything wrong.’ Without further delay he stood up, and helped Anne to her feet. ‘Come, we must finish the game.’ He saw her solicitously down the ladder, but he did not forget to clap his horse on the rump as they passed its stall. Outside in the levelling sunshine John was loitering, haloed with a golden cloud of mosquitoes.

  ‘They’re all looking for you. I said I’d find you.’

  ‘How is the Lady Isabel?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Better, I think. But she has gone to her chamber.’ Anne’s conscience tweaked her; she had not thought of her sister since leaving her.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s suffered a sad disappointment,’ the Duke said, and flicked a mosquito off his neck. He made back to the nine-men’s-morris while Anne and John fell in behind.

  Although at the time she had not guessed, as Richard had, why Isabel had taken the news so badly, Anne was not left in the dark. Long ago, it seemed, when they were still at Warwick, their father had promised that she should be Queen. Anne had forgotten - or perhaps had never noticed - but Isabel remembered. For three years she had cherished her hope, even in the fastness of Wensleydale, even against the Earl’s forays into France after a French wife for King Edward. And now, loudly and ceaselessly, she mourned its passing. She told her attendants about it as they dressed her, she complained to her mother at table, and kept Anne awake at night. In vain they conjured up streams of powerful young lords as alternative suitors; Isabel was inconsolable.

  She remained so until, late in October, Warwick returned to Middleham. The usual buzz of activity heralding his approach woke up the somnolent household, to the extent of changing the rushes in the solar and great chamber - unprecedented at that time of year. Even in peacetime his train looked more like an army than a great lord’s retinue, but it was bright enough with Neville pennants and devices. The Earl rode a glossy grey stallion, which turned out to be a present from the King. The narrow inner ward between gatehouse and keep did not seem large enough to contain them.

  The next day a message came to the nursery: the Earl wished to see his daughters privately, in the solar, one after the other. Isabel departed, pale but brave, and Anne was left quaking in the hands of the attendants, who had already fussed around her for an hour and would not let well alone. They were like flies worrying at her when she needed all her concentration to keep her hands from trembling and her mind from her great terror; that he would send her away from Middleham. Hours of suspense seemed to drag by before Isabel came back, her customary tragic expression radiant.

  ‘You are to go now,’ she said, as though speaking from a different element.

  ‘What is it? What did he say?’ Anne found the voice to whisper.

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you. It’s a matter of state. I had to take a solemn oath not to speak of it.’ Not attempting to probe further, Anne hitched up her kirtle and set off on the long walk to the keep, plunged even deeper into apprehension by her sister’s joy.

  This was the first time she had set foot in her father’s solar, the holy of holies beyond the great chamber where he normally gave audiences. The fragrance of the fresh rushes came to her as the squire ushered her in, and she was grateful for it because it made her think of outdoors and spring. Her father, in a long russet velvet gown, was striding about the room; she had never known him to sit down except at mealtimes. Behind him the red and white bed-hangings, still crumpled from travelling, sprang out of the shadows, and the Countess, in a carved chair, merged into the gloom.

  Anne fell to her knees, and the Earl’s hand descended on her bowed head, weighing heavily for a moment before he removed it and told her to rise. As she obeyed him she looked into his face, which she did rarely enough to be disturbed at what she saw. His forehead was deeply ridged, and the cropped hair rubbed away at the temples by constant wearing of a helmet. His mouth bore a faint formal smile which did not reach the eyes, and over all was that vague disappointment which was always there when he looked at her, and which always gave her a sense of rejection. For a long time he surveyed her without speaking further and she could not help, despite her resolution, squirming a little under the critical gaze. When he did speak, it was to the Countess.

  ‘Has the child no becoming gowns? That stuff drains all the colour out of her.’ Anne was wearing her best dark blue costume, with a high tight waist that restricted her breathing. Her mother said something in a muffled tone about leaving the children’s gowns to the Master of the Wardrobe.

  ‘Then dismiss him. And see that Master Barton orders a length of sky-blue velvet for her. That should bring out what light there is in her hair.’ The Countess agreed, and Anne felt guilty on her behalf and on that of the Wardrobe Master, who had spent a great deal of effort on the fitting and sewing of her scorned and uncomfortable garment. Warwick returned to his scrutiny, rubbing his knuckle across his teeth.

  ‘And how is her health these days?’

  ‘She has been well enough this summer, my lord. But winter usually indisposes her.’

  ‘Hmm. She doesn’t look very robust.’ He threw an accusing glance over his shoulder at his wife, who coughed deprecatingly. ‘Well, but neither is he.’ At last the searching eyes swooped down to meet Anne’s. ‘What do you think of your cousin the Duke of Gloucester, child?’

  ‘He is my good and loving lord, sire,’ murmured Anne. They were the first words that came to her disordered mind in the shock of the question. How could she possibly describe to anyone, least of all her father, what Richard meant to her? She did not know herself, except that she could not remember what life had been like without him. But the Earl had taken her faintness for lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Is that all?’

  She could summon up no more sense for the wild entreaty that was filling her head, ‘Don’t send me away, please, don’t send me away!’ Somehow she did not say it, only shaking her head and staring at her father’s golden suede shoes with their long soft points.

  ‘Then you must study to like him better. It is my wish!’ His tone was pleasant, almost jocular, but it was none the less a command. Unable to grasp his meaning, Anne memorised the phrases and stored them away to examine later, when she was less confused. Once more she was on her knees, perhaps because there was dismissal in the air, perhaps because her legs would hold her up no longer. ‘You’re old enough, my daughter,’ he said as she kissed his square fingers, ‘to be discreet. Keep my counsel.’

  The sky-blue gown, which was ready by Hallowmas, was beautiful; too grand for her, Anne thought, gingerly smoothing the bodice. The hem and neck were embroidered with seed-pearls, and there was a coif to match. She wore them on the feast-day with her hair loose instead of plaited. It made her feel grown-up and very self-conscious, especially after the Earl gave her a curt nod of approval in passing. There had been none of the expected jealousy from Isabel, who had no new gown; since the interview with her father she had existed on an exalted plane, noticing Anne even less than usual. And so, apart from the Earl, only her cousin Richard acknowledged the addition to her wardrobe. He did not say much. On the way into chapel for mass he had glanced at her with unwonted animation, caught her eye and smiled. Later on, escorting her into dinner, he simply said, ‘It’s very pretty,’ and squeezed her hand. That pleased her more than a dozen flowery compliments from anyone else would have done.

  Moreover it was, she supposed, fulfilling her father’s orders. Every night she brooded over what he had told her, and had come to the conclusion that Warwick was trying to make amends to the King for his ill humour over the marriage by special consideration towards his brother. Certainly the Earl himself was showing favour to the Duke of Gloucester, singling him out for attention from the other henchmen, letting his
hand rest familiarly on Richard’s shoulder, applauding his efforts at the quintain. Embarrassed and a little dazzled, Richard submitted. As for Anne, she was at a loss how to carry out her instructions. She did not see that she could increase her liking for her cousin by studying, when her Latin and French lessons were conducted quite separately from his, and seemed to bear no relation to him anyway. They were perhaps thrown together a little more than usual, but nobody remarked upon it. He did not change towards her, so she behaved as before, and was thankful. His companionship was all she wanted.

  The winter came, and she retained no memory of it afterwards except that Richard had been there all the time. Christmas was spent in York, turning the priory in Lendel where they lodged into anything but a quiet devotional retreat. And hard on the heels of the mummers and figgy pudding and the slippery journey back to Wensleydale came spring. Already in March there was expectancy in the air; the slim brown branches of the trees stood very still, as if waiting to burst suddenly into life; the cry of new lambs reached Anne’s ears at night from the pens on the hill. But the draught under the door of the Countess’s chamber was still icy. With her feet under the brazier, Anne was blowing on her mittened fingers between stitches when Richard came to her. His fur cap was pulled down over his ears, but his face was warm enough for midsummer. The Countess’s ladies moved their stools away from the brazier with reluctance, although he did not really notice them. To Anne he said, ‘The King has sent for me.’ She had learned by now to show pleasure for his sake even when she did not feel it. ‘He wants me to be with him and George in London.’ George was his second brother, the Duke of Clarence, and another of his heroes.

  ‘Will it be for very long?’ Anne tried to sound casual and delighted.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve finished my training now. There are duties for me to take up; it will be for good.’

  For the King’s good, perhaps, and possibly for Richard’s good, but not for hers. Not allowing the significance of his sentence to sink in, she asked, ‘When will you be going?’

  ‘Next month. There are arrangements to be made first. John and Frank and Rob are going with me.’

  Anne took another stitch in her embroidery, stuck the needle in her finger, and did not wince. ‘I’m very pleased,’ she said, and wished he would go before she cried.

  ‘Yes. I told you first. I thought you’d want to know.’ For a second, distant concern dimmed the brightness of his face. She quickly ducked her head so he should not see her trembling lips. ‘I have to tell the others,’ said Richard a little apologetically, and he went away, walking on air. Outside a thrush was shouting into the milky sky. Anne stared down at the half-finished popinjay she was working. The vivid colours quivered and blurred in a maze of tears.

  If winter had passed quickly, the days of March fled by. It was no use trying to hold them back; as soon stand in a swift river and try to stem the current with one’s fingers. At first Richard made it worse by talking constantly of ‘When I am in London’ and of how slowly the time was passing. But Anne could not disguise her unhappiness from him, and as soon as he realised its cause he stopped. There was still an air of contained excitement about him; when he was with the elect among the henchmen she could see it from afar, possessing them all; yet with her he was as he had always been, quiet, considerate, speaking about the things that interested them both. Only when he went back to his companions did she see that it was a sham, and feel betrayed by his very kindness.

  The imminent departure of the Duke did not ruffle the routine of Middleham and required no major upheaval as when the Earl was moving on. His few possessions and those of his followers would fit into the saddlebags of their horses. He would have gone without ceremony had not a troupe of French musicians been passing through Yorkshire in April, on their way to King James’s court in Edinburgh. Warwick invited them to break their journey in Wensleydale, and in return for his hospitality they performed in the great chamber after supper. While the other henchmen squatted in the rushes, Richard was given the chair on the Earl’s left, and although his wife was at his other hand Warwick’s attention was all for the Duke. Anne, who was on a cushion at their feet, could catch little of the conversation, but she knew that her father had never been so gracious or so relaxed.

  The pure boneless voice of the singer picked its way among the French words and the weaving notes of the recorder, and Warwick’s voice murmured on. One phrase she heard, in the pause between two chansons: ‘Remember, my dear cousin, that it is I who am your good lord. That will not change.’ Afterwards he made a special point of introducing the leader of the musicians to the Duke. ‘I met him in the service of the dauphin before he became king, your grace. Among other wonderful works, King Louis has made French music supreme in Christendom - and only the Burgundians dispute it!’ The Frenchman touched the bow of his viol to his heart and smiled modestly.

  ‘My master could not wish for praise from more exalted lips, monseigneur,’ he said in remarkably good English.

  ‘Know Bertrand de Josselin again, my lord,’ Warwick said to Richard. ‘He is worth the acquaintance.’ And in an access of geniality the Earl conducted de Josselin into his solar for a private cup of wine.

  The lesser mortals were left to their own devices; Anne watched the household dispersing to its evening duties or recreation, the musicians wrapping up their instruments with loving care and chattering lazily in a rapid birdlike tongue. A fragment of melody was running through her head. When she tried to hum it, it melted away and returned to her imagination in the unreal voice of the French singer. Richard touched her shoulder and said, ‘Will you come up to the old castle after mass tomorrow morning?’

  The elusive tune still haunted her as she mounted the grassy slope with her cousin the next day. The rising sun threw long spidery shadows across the mound, glittering on the frost and turning it to dew. On the highest hillock he spread his cloak for them to sit on. Breathless from the ascent they rested and stared out over the valley, hazy and indistinct in the early light. It was three years since they had first come here, on that day when the blackthorn was dropping white petals over the ancient earthworks. And although they had been many times in the interim, at all seasons, the years seemed to telescope and make the first day only yesterday. Down there Warwick’s standard still hung limply against the flagstaff on the keep; his men-at-arms were still pacing the battlements, the Ure still reflecting the sky. But the day after tomorrow was St Mark’s Day, and the Duke of Gloucester was leaving for London.

  ‘What is it you’re singing?’

  ‘They played it last night. It won’t come right.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it before. At Westminster, I think. It’s a popular song at court, although most of the King’s musicians are from Burgundy, not France. I can’t sing it either.’ The tune had broken their silence, and the taboo on talk of London. ‘Anne, I will come back. My brother needs me in the south, but my duties are bound to bring me to Yorkshire sometimes.’

  ‘Will they? Really?’

  ‘And I’ll write to you. My lord your father has promised to stand my friend always, and he said that I might.’

  ‘My father?’ It was hard to believe that the Earl had actually spoken of her to Richard.

  ‘Yes. He’s sorry I’m going. He would have wished me to stay longer, because there are other things to be learned.’ The question was on Anne’s lips before he crushed her faint hope. ‘But I must obey the King. He is my liege lord, you see.’ Anne nodded. King Edward’s summons, for his youngest brother, was like a call from God.

  ‘You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, for a long time. I only hope I’m worthy of it.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Anne assured him warmly.

  ‘And of you.’ Richard turned his attention from the landscape and the future to his cousin. Reaching inside his shirt, he drew something over his head and held it out to her. ‘This is for you.’ It was an oval pendant, swinging from his hand by a slen
der gold chain. She hesitated, watching the sunlight trickling up and down the fine links; people so rarely gave her things that she was at a loss as to what to do or say. A little diffidently, Richard pushed his gift closer. Still she did not take it, but glanced from his face to the magic he held between his fingers in a confusion of doubt and wonder. Suddenly he leaned towards her and slipped the chain round her neck, then sat back to wait for her reaction. Anne touched the pendant with reverence; it was warm from his body. Thus encouraged she bent to examine it properly, and the uncertainty in her eyes was wholly chased away by the wonder.

  Round the edge were tiny pink and white gems which blinked at her in a friendly way. There was a blue T-shaped cross on a gold ground, and in the centre a miniature golden bird’s nest complete with fledglings. It was more delicate and pretty than any piece of jewellery she had ever seen, and it was hers. Hearing her soft contented sigh, Richard released his own breath.

  ‘Oh, Richard, it’s … too beautiful.’ He could not remember her having called him by name before, and obscurely it touched him as much as her pleasure in his gift.