Warwick and Clarence, however, were of opposite mind, ever urging on their less involved followers. As they progressed the Duke’s temper frayed. He rode restlessly from one end of the cavalcade to the other, snapping at the men in charge of the litter that their sloth was holding everyone up, and his solicitude for his wife was rapidly exhausted. Once, in Anne’s hearing, he told her to hold her peace and think of the child’s welfare instead of her own. Warwick’s spirits though were proof against the weather, their peril, and the bad roads. With that familiar light of determination in his eye, he remarked that the roads would hold up the King too, and Anne marvelled at the strange quirk in his nature which improved his morale when other men’s failed.
And indeed there was still no sign of pursuit when they entered Exeter in the sodden afternoon of the tenth day. Dozing uneasily behind her riding-companion, Anne was roused by a ragged shout of ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’ It was not an attack from the rear, but only a few citizens who, sharp enough to recognise the pennants of the great Earl, had not yet heard that the King had turned against him. Grateful for a little encouragement, the fugitives took heart. There was no difficulty here about a ship, since Warwick’s messengers-had preceded him, and not long after dark they were embarking. Only half conscious, Anne was helped on board, and as soon as she was deposited in the cabin, she curled up on some canvas and fell asleep.
When she awoke the ship was rolling and she was shivering violently. Someone had laid her on a pallet and covered her with a dry cloak, but underneath her clothes were clinging damply to her skin. The creaking of a ship under sail filled the close air, and beyond that the slap of water. There was no sound of other human occupation, and Anne thought she was alone in the cabin. As she sat up, huddling the cloak round her shoulders, she was appalled by what she saw. The hanging lanthorn was lighted, but a feeble glimmer from the companionway indicated that it was day outside. There was a bucket on the floor, which spilled its ordure with every motion of the ship, and four other pallets, each with a recumbent figure. In that moment’s semi-somnolent panic, Anne fancied that she had been abandoned with four corpses. She had once read an Italian tale about a girl sealed alive into a vault who had run mad at the horror of it. Leaning towards the nearest body she found it was Isabel; in the swaying flame of the lanthorn her pink-and-white complexion was drained to a deathly green. Anne tottered to her feet, with an idea of escaping from this charnel-house at all costs, and recognised the other bodies as her mother the Countess and two ladies-in-waiting.
Then, poised for flight, she was checked. Across her path Ankarette, her sister’s attendant, flung an arm above her head and groaned. Simultaneously Anne identified the acrid stench of seasickness. So they were not dead, merely spent by vomiting. The discovery did not alter her instinct to escape. She stepped over Ankarette, unsteady on the heaving boards, and clinging to the steps above she climbed towards the light. A drop of moisture hit her in the eye and made it sting, and when her head rose above deck level she realised that it was not rain, but sea-spray. The wind sprang at her, whipping her loose hair around her face so that it was difficult to see anything. Holding it back with one ill-spared hand, she drank in the sharp salty gusts with some relief, and looked about her.
All around and almost above her as the ship ploughed from side to side, the sea was lashed into angry grey peaks. Between them it was just possible to glimpse a low uncertain coastline away to the left, but otherwise there was nothing in sight but waves and the turbulent sky, and the thunderous canvas of the sail. Her first exhilaration was quickly overtaken by loneliness at these expanses of emptiness, and the wind was beginning to hurt her ears.
But as she considered whether it was better to drown or to die of suffocation, a large individual loomed up on deck, with blue snakes curled round his hairy arms. He stood gazing down at her, hands on hips, and from her vantage point his bare feet were enormous and he dwindled away to a disproportionately small head smothered in beard and an old green scarf.
‘Go below, little maid,’ he said, addressing her with the sort of roughness she had never heard before, but which surprisingly did not frighten her. ‘Deck’s no place for a wisp like you this weather - you’d be blown to Biscay if gale got hold of you.’
Anne was quite willing to obey, but something prompted her to ask him, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Earl’s making for Southampton, but it’s a hard pull against this nor’easter. We’re close-hauled as it is, and if wind veers we’ll have to put in afore that.’ Understanding little of the nautical jargon, she grasped that at least she was in the right ship.
‘Where is my lord?’
The sailor chuckled. ‘Sleeping it off for’ard. Even the great conqueror of the Dons isn’t proof against the Channel in a gale.’
‘They’re all the same down there.’ Anne nodded below.
‘What about you?’ her friend asked.
‘I woke up and wanted some air. It’s very … close in the cabin.’ He laughed, what would have been a guffaw if the wind had not scattered its force.
‘Ah, I can see you’re as right as rain. They may be great ones, but their stomachs are as delicate as their manners, eh?’
She tumbled to the fact that he had taken her for an attendant, and she laughed too and agreed. Laughing reminded her of the hollow state of her own stomach. ‘I’m very hungry,’ she remarked, without thinking of the impropriety of mentioning such a weakness to a mere sailor. He stared at her with humorous admiration.
‘By the mass, you are, are you? Fine ladies and gentlemen and the famous Earl of Warwick himself flat on their backs, and this little wench says she’s hungry!’ The man felt in his pocket and then squatted beside her, proffering a wrinkled yellow apple. ‘It’s not much, but I had it from an apple-loft in Plymouth only yesterday. You’re welcome to it.’ At closer quarters he smelled very strongly despite the gale, yet Anne was so touched by his gesture that she took the apple and, sitting on the steps, munched it. It was soft, and the flesh was creamy and crumbly, but it tasted of the country and autumn.
While she ate the sailor chatted to her, mostly about incomprehensible naval things like quarters and bells, but she also gleaned the information that their party was not all in this ship. Several smaller craft had been commandeered, and must have fallen astern during the night. On one of them was the Duke of Clarence. Much as she relished the novelty of her new acquaintance’s company, Anne was beginning to shiver again. Thanking him politely for the apple, she said that she would have to change into some dry clothes, if he would excuse her.
‘Of course! And I expect that one o’ them will wake up soon, wailing for another bucket.’ He wriggled his bushy eyebrows at her slyly, and stood up. ‘Both back to duty, eh? I to take the helm and you to hold heads.’ Winking at her, he vanished, bare feet sure on the uneasy deck. Warmed by the irreverent wink, and by the knowledge that there were several miles of ocean between her and the Duke of Clarence, Anne clambered back down the ladder to forage for some fresh clothing.
It took the best part of three more days to make Southampton Water. Warwick hovered off the Needles for some time, in the lee of the Isle of Wight, waiting for the rest of his small fleet to come up with him, and then they made down the strait together towards the port. Although his family, save Anne, were still laid low, the Earl had recovered his sea-legs and was directing operations again. Anne would have preferred to be on deck, rather than below watching the other women vomiting, but it was made clear to her that she was in the way. Much of the time she slept, or sat on the companionway and craned her neck to see the coast slipping by, and the incredible white cliffs of the island.
When Southampton was sighted she was glad enough to be under cover. Her father might have hoped to sneak back into the country while Edward’s attention was elsewhere, but the King’s vigilance was too quick for him. The haven was manned against him, and gun-stones splashed into the water uncomfortably near the foremost ship. If the use of cannon did not
surprise the Earl, it unnerved the sailors, and the fleet was about and running for the open sea before he could do anything to stop it. Down in the cabin the women were screaming, convinced that the ship was about to break up and sink under the impact of thunderbolts from heaven. Anne, who had caught a glimpse of the distant engines of war, and the missiles hurtling through the air towards them, was too shaken to scream. While the harbour was still visible she remained frozen to her perch; afterwards she slid down the steps and, for the first and last time on the voyage, was sick into the bucket.
Out of the shelter of the island, they headed once more into the wind. The fleet had been battling eastwards for some hours when Warwick paid one of his perfunctory visits to his family. Since Anne was the only person capable of understanding he addressed himself to her, his head bent to avoid the roof of the cabin which was in fact only metaphorically too low to contain him.
‘The gale shows signs of abating; we should reach Calais without difficulty. You can lie there until Isabel is delivered.’
‘Calais. Thank God!’ It was Isabel who spoke, but a whisper of relief rustled through the cabin. All their lives Calais had stood for a refuge from the ingratitude of foolish Englishmen. Now it would be a haven also from the hostile elements. In Calais they would be safe.
But the Earl’s hopes were too sanguine. The wind did not drop, but veered easterly, which made their progress once beyond the protection of the coast even slower. They had been at sea for eleven days, imprisoned by sickness and weather in the stinking little cell below decks, when the wharves and roofs of Calais detached themselves from the flying spume. Anne had not been happy there, but she greeted the tower of St Mary Virgin with something like affection. At least it was solid and did not toss up and down. At the risk of a chiding she stood at the head of the companionway, keeping a tight hold on the rail and gazing hungrily towards the port. Suddenly through the buffeting wind she heard a cry from beneath her feet. Isabel was propped shakily on one elbow, staring in dismay through her tangled hair.
‘I think the pains have started. Oh Anne, what shall I do?’
‘Don’t fret. We’ll be in Calais very soon. I’ll tell them to hurry.’ Giving her a drink out of a pitcher of stale water, Anne mounted the steps again. She had grown used to performing small menial tasks for her incapacitated fellows, and she was not especially worried. This stage of childbirth, she had heard, could last for hours, and by the time Isabel really needed help they would be secure in the fortress, with midwives and doctors in attendance. There was a sailor close by, apparently idle, and she called him, thinking as he approached that there was something familiar about his bush of a black beard.
‘Run and tell my lord Earl that her grace is in labour,’ she said. ‘She must be taken ashore as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ As he pulled his forelock ironically she remembered the apple he had given her, and realised that he had not yet any notion of who she was. She sat beside her sister and reassured her as best she could, while Isabel lay taut and waited for the next contraction. It was long in coming, and when it had come and gone there was still no sound of any docking manœuvres, only the roar of the wind and pounding of the sea. Indeed, the ship seemed to be making no way at all. As she was beginning to wonder about it, the Earl entered the cabin. His mouth was tight with anger.
‘The quay is defended against us,’ he said. ‘Wenlock has run up the royal standard and will not let us land. He has betrayed me.’ Anne was engulfed by a wave of shame momentarily even stronger than her shock. Such treachery to her father tainted the whole of mankind. But Isabel had caught the more practical implication.
‘I can’t stay here! Oh, what will become of me?’ She rolled on to her side and began to sob.
‘How far gone is she?’ Warwick demanded of Anne.
‘I don’t know. The pains are still far apart.’
‘Stay with her. Try to rouse your mother and the women. I’ll send a message to Wenlock.’ His tone was brusque. The prospect of suing for favours from his former lieutenant was bitter gall to him, and the glance he threw at his elder daughter as he left was scarcely forgiving. Yet Anne did not doubt that he would obtain the concession he wanted; at least the governor would allow the ladies to go ashore: that basic courtesy to a woman in childbed even an infidel would extend, especially when asked to do so by the Earl of Warwick.
She set about doing her father’s bidding. It was impossible; for nearly two weeks the women had taken no solid food, the wind still tossed the ship like a walnut shell, and they were incapable of coherent thought; let alone action. Ankarette did try to rise at her urging, but a lurch of the ship sent her sprawling and retching again. The Countess lay with her eyes closed, murmuring, ‘I can do nothing! Nothing!’ while the other attendant would neither move nor speak. Giving up, Anne went over to Isabel and held her hand as she watched her back arch in another contraction. If the callous Lord Wenlock would not let them land, at least he would send a midwife, she consoled her sister and herself.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘I can hardly deliver the baby alone.’ For a moment, surveying the grown women, all mothers, who lay helplessly around, leaving a thirteen-year-old girl the only possible nurse, she saw the funny side, and smiled.
By nightfall she was past smiling. Some men had brought a brazier down and a second lanthorn; no other help had arrived. Isabel’s cries were becoming anguished when Anne faced the truth that none would come. There was a moment of blind panic, a return to the insane instinct of her first awakening in the ship, to rush up on deck and trust herself to the ocean rather than this living nightmare. But a glance at her sister brought back her senses, and she sat down to consider what to do. What she needed most was advice. She shrank from disturbing her mother; a lifetime’s habit of not troubling her was ingrained. It would have to be Ankarette. She had borne three children, and could at least tell her what to expect. Before rousing her Anne remembered another source of strength, and with a hand pressed to her hidden pendant she muttered a supplication to St Anne, who had given birth to the Blessed Virgin.
The night passed, timelessly, punctuated by Isabel’s suffering. The wind seemed to have dropped a little, or perhaps the shipmaster had found a more sheltered anchorage. Ankarette had succeeded in keeping down a morsel of the food brought to Anne by a young gentleman who afterwards fled as from the plague; between them they had made Isabel more comfortable, and prepared her pallet for the birth. After midnight, when Anne’s head was swimming with weariness and the fetid atmosphere, the only sign of the Governor of Calais’ humanity appeared, with a message expressing his humble service: a cask of wine. One cupful made her so cheerful that she would eagerly have drunk several more, but Ankarette pointed out feebly that it was meant to render the Duchess of Clarence insensible, not her nurse. Removing the rag that Isabel was biting on, Anne managed after several attempts to make her swallow some without throwing up again, and on an empty stomach this had immediate effect. Between pangs she started to chatter and sing, telling her absent husband what a fine heir she had given him, complaining of his roughness, chanting fragments of love songs. It was worse than her former anguish, and Anne wanted to shut her ears against the indecent levity of her sister’s babbling. But no, said Ankarette, let her keep her oblivion.
‘If you’d been through it as I have, lady, you’d know what it is she’s missing, and bless the kindness of my lord Wenlock.’ She fell into a doze, leaving Anne, drowsy herself, to administer wine and listen to its results.
There were trickles of blood, but no sign of the sudden gush of fluid which her adviser had told her would herald the baby’s emergence But there was plenty of time for that, she assured herself, with some muddled idea that aid would come before she actually had to do anything. She was close to sleep herself when Ankarette awoke and asked suddenly if the waters had broken. After examination Anne said she thought not.
‘How long has she been in labour?’ With some taxing of her tired brai
n, Anne calculated. ‘That’s a long time. They should have broken by now. Still, it is her first. I was two days labouring with my first child,’ Ankarette remarked proudly. A new morning crept tentatively down the companionway. The watchers broke their fast, and sent their negative news in answer to the Earl’s enquiry. Despite the wine, Isabel was clearly close to exhaustion. Days of illness and twenty hours of physical exertion were taking a severe toll. When Anne sponged her face clean of sweat and wine stains, she could hardly bear to look at it. Her attendant, rising gingerly from her pallet to inspect her, retired again very troubled.
‘I’m afraid, lady. She’ll die if the child doesn’t come soon.’
‘What can we do?’ Anne fought down the coldness in her limbs.
‘Nothing. A midwife would know … but we can only wait.’
It was what she had feared, all those months ago in summer, in the town just over the water where salvation lay out of reach. This must have been why she was stirred by premonition on first seeing the Duke of Clarence stepping across the grass towards them with the goshawk on his fist. It was her sister’s murderer that she had seen. She knelt beside her and took her hand.
‘Isabel, Isabel, you must try.’
‘Tell her to push. The baby needs help.’ Anne conveyed Ankarette’s order, but Isabel rolled her head wearily from side to side in defeat.
‘I can’t.’ Her voice was slurred and faint. ‘Take the pain away and let me sleep.’
‘You must do something yourself, and then the pain will go. Grip my hand and push.’ The attempt was pathetic, but it brought the veins out on her neck, and sweat started on her temples. And, minutes later, even through the fumes of alcohol she was yelling with agony.
‘Is it coming?’ In her anxiety the attendant struggled once more from her pallet and peered beneath Isabel’s blanket. ‘Again - tell her to do it again.’ With all the will she had, Anne urged her sister on, and although she was sobbing and trembling with stress, she responded. ‘Look! It’s coming. Praise be to Our Lady!’ Sick with anticipation, Anne joined the woman on the floor at the foot of the pallet, and there was an oval swelling like some horrible growth between Isabel’s thighs. She gulped and hid her eyes against Ankarette’s shoulder. ‘Go and tell her,’ said the attendant. ‘Only a little more effort and he will be born.’ Somehow Anne crawled back to her sister’s side and spoke to her.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 10