After a moment he said, ‘I had it made specially. This is the cross of St Anthony, and I’ve chosen him as my saint.’
‘Then I shall pray to him for you, all the time you’re away. This will remind me.’
‘I hoped it might.’ Now it was he who hesitated, shy of the next thing he wanted to say. But innocently Anne gave him his cue.
‘All these little stones! And I do like the birds in their nest.’ With her fingernail she traced round the engraving.
‘Do you know what that is for?’
‘The bird’s nest?’ She shook her head, but then something occurred to her. ‘In the chapel there’s a window. In the glass our Blessed Lady’s mother is carrying a nest. There are four baby birds in it, and I think they must be very hungry because their mouths are open. Perhaps holy St Anne should have left it in the tree.’ This was the sort of reflection that often ran through her head during mass; she would not have spoken them aloud to anyone else. On this occasion, however, her cousin was not really following her.
‘That’s why it’s on your pendant. For St Anne.’ He regarded her closely, to make sure she had understood. The blush rose slowly to her cheeks, and Richard sprang to his feet and made off down the mound, whistling a tuneless version of the French melody.
For a while Anne was so immersed in her joy that she could not imagine why she had ever been sad. So he had not betrayed her. When she had thought him totally occupied with his chosen future as the servant of his King, he had been secretly planning her solace. The ache of his leaving was filtering through again, but she knew he had done the best he could to soften the blow. She was even now not certain what he meant by binding them together in their patron saints, but the promise was there in the reality of the small enamelled pendant.
When he appeared again a few minutes later he brought a fistful of treasures which he laid in her lap - a red spotted toadstool, a pigeon’s feather, a polished yellow celandine flower. It was a ritual from the early days; he had outgrown the jackdaw instinct, but he kept it up because she appreciated the offerings. A dusty corner of the nursery was piled with dead leaves and odd pebbles she had stored there. At this reminder of a dying past she wept, and he put his arm round her until she stopped.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’ And he took her by the hand round their stronghold to say goodbye.
She hardly spoke to him after that. There were the formalities of two days’ routine to be carried out, and the leave-taking on the drawbridge at dawn on St Mark’s Day. But despite the little private smile that Richard gave her as they embraced, his mind was back on his destiny. As he led his cavalcade of excited boys down the hill, she could tell that he had no regrets about riding out of his childhood. The red-and-gold of the labelled royal arms of England fluttered proudly above him; only at the rear of the procession did a man-at-arms carry the bear and ragged staff of Warwick. Inside a box by her bed the, pendant of St Anthony and St Anne lay hidden from everyone’s eyes but her own; yet in that bitter moment she knew that she had lost him to King Edward.
3: WEDDING AT CALAIS
Only one incident penetrated the barrenness of that first summer without Richard. It seemed to trouble nobody else, but it did nothing to lighten her loneliness. On a windless evening in
July she overheard a remark dropped by a gentleman to one of her mother’s ladies.
‘You hear they’ve taken the old mad King?’
The lady shrugged. ‘I wonder the Frenchwoman let him so far out of her sight.’ That was all, and although Anne listened harder than usual to the casual gossip of the castle she could learn no more. There was no Richard to ask, and the henchmen she knew best had gone with him to London and been replaced by strangers. So she went back to the old condescending source of information.
‘Why bother about him?’ asked Isabel, who spent much of her time hob-nobbing with the younger attendants, discussing the fashion in gowns.
‘Please tell me what’s happened,’ persisted Anne, made bold by anxiety.
‘King Henry has been captured, that’s all.’
‘And what... what will they do to him?’
‘I don’t know. Shut him up or do away with him, I suppose.’
‘But what harm has he done? He’s - he was kind.’She could remember little of King Henry besides the long gentle hands soothing a frightened bird, yet she was sure that he deserved protection and not punishment.
‘He’s crazed in his wits and he has no throne,’ said Isabel sharply. ‘He’s no good to anyone. Now do go away. Our father wouldn’t be pleased to hear you defending a man he’s been fighting for years.’ With which rebuke she returned to a discussion on hennins.
There was nothing Anne could do. She considered writing to Richard to use his influence with his brother, but although he faithfully wrote once a month she had no means of communication except his messenger, who had gone two weeks ago. Taking refuge in the chapel from her first taste of politics, she gravitated towards the window where St Anne and St Joachim were rearing the Blessed Virgin. With some vague idea that King Henry and St Anne both loved birds, she prayed to her patroness to keep him safe.
The saint could not keep him from the Tower, but with some relief Anne learned that the old King had been placed in the Earl of Warwick’s custody. Her father was a stern man, yet she was convinced he would not harm an innocent or helpless person. When he next visited Wensleydale she longed for the courage to ask him how King Henry fared. But Warwick had more congenial matters on his mind than the health of his nominal prisoner. His brother George, Anne’s youngest uncle, had just been raised to the Archbishopric of York, and he was not one to waste the opportunity of displaying to England at large and the North in particular that the Nevilles still held the ascendancy in the kingdom. There was much coming and going of Neville uncles and cousins on the business of planning a great feast during the winter in honour of the Archbishop’s installation. Representatives of all the leading families were invited and it was through the question of the King’s deputy that Anne found out what Isabel had been hugging to herself since that private interview with her father. They did not often talk in bed, but on this occasion Isabel could hardly wait for their attendant to snuff the candles and fumble her way into the cot across the doorway before she thumped her sister on the back and hissed, ‘Are you asleep?’
Anne had been on the verge of it. ‘What is it?’ She moved Kat back to its proper position under her chin.
‘Something very important. Not even our lady mother knows yet, but I must tell someone.’ In spite of herself Anne was awake; her sister had not shared a confidence with her before. ‘Can you guess who the King is sending to the Archbishop’s feast?’ For a wild moment Anne thought it might be the Duke of Gloucester, but the light died as she realised that Isabel would not consider him important.
‘No. Who?’
‘Why, the Duke of Clarence himself!’ Isabel’s whisper shook with emotion.
‘Oh. That will be a great honour.’ Anne could not imagine why her sister should be so affected.
‘A great honour! Of course it is. But the main thing is - that we shall meet at last. After all these months of negotiation, our father has arranged it. Oh, Anne,’ her low voice became ardent, ‘they say that next to King Edward he’s the handsomest man in England. And he is richer than anyone else - except for the crown and our father, of course.’ Anne was beginning to understand. ‘Do you think he’s afire to see me?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘But naturally, he must be - I dare swear it’s he who persuaded the King to let him come. Any bridegroom would yearn to see a bride who is Warwick’s daughter.’
So in place of the first gentleman in the land Isabel had been offered the second. She had subsided into blissful silence, but abruptly she reached out and clutched Anne’s naked arm, digging in her fingernails. ‘That is a deadly secret, and if you speak of it to a living soul, God will strike you down where you stand.’ Anne could not suppress a frightened
whimper at the unexpected violence. At once her sister released her and said, ‘Forgive me, Anne, I didn’t mean to hurt. But I’m under oath not to tell of my marriage, and now you’re party to it as well. It’s a dreadful thing to break one’s word, and I had to warn you of what could happen if you did.’ Caressing her smarting arm, Anne wondered why telling her sister had not broken Isabel’s word; no doubt that was an adult sophistication beyond her comprehension.
Isabel’s daydream remained unfulfilled. The Duke of Clarence was not coming after all; the King’s representative would be Richard of Gloucester. She was too downcast to be envious of Anne, who was left to enjoy her quiet anticipation in peace. The banquet was to be given at the Archbishop’s palace of Cawood, which involved a long day’s journey from Middleham through torrential rain. Inevitably Anne caught a cold, and by the morning of the feast she had developed fever as well.
In the chilly chamber where they dressed she shivered and tried to breathe through a stuffed nose, uninspired by the twittering excitement around her. She was laced into a new gown of cloth-of-silver with hanging sleeves, and the white brocade cote, cut away at sides and hem to display the kirtle, was slipped over her throbbing head. Isabel, in cloth-of-gold, was arranging her long honey-blond hair carefully over her shoulders and the gentle swelling of her low-cut bodice. As they twisted a silver filigree net round her head Anne looked down resignedly at her own flat chest. She would have preferred a high neckline, not only for its practical warmth, but because then she could have worn her pendant and nobody would have known. After a debate with herself the night before, thinking with difficulty between battles for breath, she had decided to leave the jewel in the box she had carefully brought from Middleham. The risk of being questioned and laughed at outweighed the possibility that Richard might notice her wearing his token and be pleased. So a red and silver Neville saltire hung round her neck instead. Richard did not need to be reminded. Although she had thought of little but his return since leaving Wensleydale, now she was not looking forward to seeing him at all. Wretchedly aware that her feverish flush was accentuated by the white purity of her gown, she wanted only to go to bed. At any other time she would probably have been encouraged to do so, but she knew better than to ask to be excused. This was an occasion when the entire family must stand together, presenting a mighty and united front to the world. Even an insignificant gap in the ranks would be deplored today. Wiping her eyes on a crumpled square of linen, Anne prepared to do battle for the family name.
The tables which ran the length of the great hall were overflowing with dishes. Every possible variety of fish, flesh and fowl jostled for pride of place, and rising above them were the fantastic towers and pinnacles of the subtleties, which Anne normally loved for their sugary ingenuity. Round the tables, packed as tightly, were rows and rows of people, as diverse as the food, the head-dresses as elaborate as the subtleties. Torches and beeswax candles flickered everywhere, and in the hearths at each end of the hall huge fires were blazing. After the unheated passages the wave of hot air, strong with sweat and roast meat and smoke, was like a physical blow. The sight of the vast assembly and the assault on Anne’s aching head almost overwhelmed her; she knew nothing of her progress to the high table. They were the last to take their places, after a reverence to their host on the way.
Anne had seen her uncle George before, though not in such splendour. She took in little beyond the remembered impression of smoothness: smooth fair hair under the jewelled mitre, a long face with smooth cheeks and a smooth smile. And beside him, almost hidden behind a confection of the keys of St Peter cunningly superimposed upon the Neville arms, was the Duke of Gloucester. Her eyes fastened on the familiar figure as a rock in the swaying sea of strange colours and shapes. Yet not quite familiar. This Richard was not the Earl of Warwick’s henchman; he was the King’s brother and deputy, and he sat at the Archbishop’s right hand in all the authority of a guest of honour. Although she fancied that a gleam of recognition lightened his grave expression as he saw her, her momentary pleasure was gone. Wedged between her other uncle and a cousin, Anne resumed her struggle for breath. A succession of silver platters heaped with expensive delicacies were placed before her and removed untouched; she was concerned only with the tide of suffocating heat which beat continually in her face, and the insidious draught that slid down the back of her gown. The chatter and clatter of the distinguished multitude came to her as a muffled roar, at once far away and unbearably loud. One voice detached itself from the surrounding din; her uncle John, the new Earl of Northumberland, was addressing her.
‘You’re not eating, niece. Is something troubling you?’ There was a deep crease between his brows; he was a rough-cut version of his brother the Archbishop, and Anne was less nervous with him than with most members of her family.
‘No, thank you, my lord.’ Her own voice echoed from a great distance. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘A pity, with such bounty to choose from,’ he observed without censure, and returned to the shin of pork he was gnawing. Somewhere beyond him, Richard was dining, at his ease among his peers. By a strenuous effort Anne resisted the inclination to lay her head down among the crumbs and spilt sauce and give way to her misery. When at length the tables were cleared and stacked away, the interminable feast was followed by an interminable entertainment. Singers, tumblers, jugglers, mouthed and performed their antics, while a stream of grand personages mounted the dais to pay homage to Archbishop Neville. A few paid homage to his niece also, and she kept her back stiff and gave her hand to everyone who stooped before her, although their faces were only shimmering ovals of white swathed in swirling draperies. But one hand that grasped hers was different, and did not let go. Through the miasma she distinguished a pair of brown eyes peering at her.
‘I’m sorry you’re not well, Anne,’ he said. She tried to rub away the mist with her free fist.
‘I can’t see you properly,’ she admitted dolefully.
‘You shouldn’t be here. You ought to be in bed. I’ll tell your mother.’
‘No ... no, Richard.’ She clung to him, forgetting the respect due to the King’s deputy. ‘I must be here. It’s very important. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Very well, if you’re sure. But I hoped you might enjoy the jugglers. You liked the ones in York last Christmas.’ For a moment she saw him clearly, leaning towards her with the solicitude she remembered so well; an older Richard, whose voice had broken, but who had not forgotten her, or the strolling mountebanks who had diverted them in the priory in Lendel. She did not see him go, and nobody near had noticed anything but his grace of Gloucester saluting his cousin.
After the feast she was ill for a week, and was carried back to Middleham in a horse-litter. Apart from her own poor showing, however, the great event seemed to have been a success. It was still being discussed with complacency when summer came. The Earl of Warwick had stood sponsor at the font to the King’s first child - a daughter, unfortunately, they said, and Anne felt sorry for poor little Princess Elizabeth. It was evident that, in peace or war, Edward could not do without his mightiest subject.
About midsummer the household was uprooted from Wensleydale and transported in a slow cumbersome caravan south to Warwick. It was for Anne a sickening re-enactment of that half-recollected journey northwards, but her sister scarcely complained at all. For once Anne knew the reason for her high spirits. Now that she had revealed the secret of her projected marriage, Isabel talked of it to her incessantly, presumably because there was nobody else in whom she could confide. They were moving closer to London, she explained, so that it would be easier for the Duke of Clarence to visit her.
‘I expect there’ll be a civic reception for him, and a procession through the town. And the King may well be with him. After all, I shall be his sister-in-law, and it’s a long time since my lord our father entertained him.’ Anne did not like the sound of it. But as it happened she had no cause to worry.
There was no procession, no c
ivic reception, and certainly no King. The Duke came upon them unexpectedly and almost unannounced, one afternoon as the girls sat under the trees down by the Avon reading Boethius with their confessor. An attendant, wading through the long grass with difficulty in her voluminous kirtle, gasped out the news minutes before he appeared.
‘Oh, my lady, his grace of Clarence is here, and my lord Earl, and he says we are not to incommode ourselves but to behave as if his grace were a private gentleman.’ From the way the woman was behaving, hennin askew and cheeks scarlet, hands fluttering distractedly, she did not seem to have taken Warwick’s advice to heart. Neither did Isabel. Springing to her feet with a small scream she began to revolve wildly, her fingers twisting before her.
‘What shall I do, what shall I do? I’m not prepared to receive him. Anne, help me! Do I look terrible? I’m wearing no jewels, only my pearl brooch. What will he think of me, with my hair unbound?’ Anne thought that her sister looked rather pretty in her confusion, the loose strands of blond hair floating in the breeze, but with hands as unsteady as the other two girls’ she helped to brush the grass seed from Isabel’s gown and to smooth her hair. The priest was on his feet too, standing irresolutely with the place still kept in The Consolations of Philosophy, no less perturbed than his pupils. They were still standing there, in an awkward tableau, when the Earl came into sight and strolled down the slope towards them, his guest beside him and no more than three gentlemen, who remained at a discreet distance, in attendance.
To Anne, George of Clarence had become as unreal, if not quite as menacing, as Queen Margaret. And so this tall apparition, advancing on them with long casual strides, had about him something of a walking nightmare. The illusion was heightened by what he carried: a great hunched bird-shape which rode easily on his fist. Although Anne knew perfectly well that it was a goshawk, such as she had seen countless times in the mews and flown by her father, her foreboding persisted. Her eyes lowered as she made her courtesy, she saw the pair of greenclad legs hasten their lazy pace and genuflect beside her.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 6