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

by Lesley Nickell

  Her fingers slid over the beads, rehearsing the Five Sorrowful Mysteries, and gradually the familiar pattern of Aves and Pater Nosters calmed her mind again. The beauty of last night’s vision came back and warmed her anew; it was fruitless to worry about Clarence: soon she would be beyond his reach. The sun was sinking in a clear primrose sky by the time she judged it safe to go back to her apartments. Intending to say goodnight to her mother and then retire, she went to the Countess’s room. He was still there, leaning against the table and nursing a flagon of wine. His fair complexion had a high colour, and Anne remembered the stories whispered by the ladies of his nightly drinking-bouts in the town. If she had any hope now of escaping unobserved, it was quickly dispelled.

  ‘You’re a pious little creature, aren’t you, sister?’ he said as soon as she entered. ‘You should have kept your lady mother with you in chapel. She’s rather in need of spiritual consolation at present.’ Anne looked at the Countess. Her hands were unusually idle and clenched in her lap, and even the rosy light of the sunset did not disguise her pallor.

  ‘Madame, are you unwell? I’ll call your ladies.’ She hurried to her mother’s side, noticing that the only other occupants of the chamber were two of the Duke’s gentlemen. Isabel had gone to bed before Vespers, which was fortunate, since her husband could scarcely endure speaking to her. Had he been bullying the Countess? Glancing at him, she decided that he was quite capable of it in his present mood.

  He held her accusing eyes and drawled, ‘Don’t spend too much sympathy on her; keep some for yourself.’ Her apprehension hardened into cold certainty. It was she he had come to see. She gripped her rosary in one hand and the back of the Countess’s chair with the other, and thus sustained she confronted Clarence. He had not missed the surreptitious movement towards her beads. ‘Which saint is it you pray to, sister? I doubt if one will be enough in future. You’ll need St Michael and all his angels to protect you where you’re going.’

  ‘Where ... am I going?’ It was a question he had manoeuvred her into asking. He did not hide his malicious eagerness to reply, and yet in dread she had to ask.

  ‘To Angers. To meet your husband.’

  ‘Husband?’ Her voice was so faint that it hardly reached him across the room. But the Countess leaned forward, driven for once out of her passivity to defend her daughter.

  ‘My lord - is it necessary to tell her now?’ The Duke opened his eyes wide in exaggerated innocence.

  ‘I’m trying to prepare her gently. She must know soon, my dear madame.’

  ‘Could it not wait until my lord returns?’

  He laughed shortly. ‘I doubt if he will break it to her gently.’ And he returned to his prey, who was standing like a statue at her mother’s elbow. ‘A very illustrious husband ... some would say. The Nevilles always marry their children well - heiresses, earls, dukes, are small fry. Even royal dukes are dispensable when something better comes along. A Prince of Wales wandering unattached round Europe - now that is a windfall for a marriageable daughter. Though there is some doubt as to who his father is.’ His elaborate sarcasm was lost on Anne. She gazed at him blankly, her mind telling her only that there was no Prince of Wales. ‘Oh, but there is.’ She must have spoken aloud, for he was answering her thought. ‘If your memory is long enough. And your father’s memory is very long - when it suits his policy.’ A sudden venom shot through his words as he mentioned Warwick. Throwing away innuendo, he flung her fate brutally into her face. ‘He’s making friends with Margaret the Frenchwoman, and he’s going to marry you to her son as a seal to the treaty.’ The phrases cut a jagged pattern into her brain, but they meant nothing. Clarence refilled his cup and took a long draught. Outside a blackbird began his bold salute to the evening and beyond his song the bell called the sisters to Compline.

  ‘Oh no, he can’t,’ Anne said reasonably. ‘I’m going to be a nun.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ The sneer was back. ‘I doubt if the Earl would let a few vows stand in the way of his plans - even if they had already been taken. Which they haven’t.’ Bland and menacing, his face was a barrier between her and the future.

  ‘Madame, I cannot marry. Tell him it’s impossible.’

  ‘I may say nothing without the consent of your lord father. It is he who will make the decision. You must wait until he returns, my child, and submit to his will.’ Distressed but too weak to defy her son-in-law, the Countess had retreated into her customary neutrality. There was no help here. Quietly Anne knelt for her mother’s nightly blessing and made a courtesy to the Duke, in whose expression she surprised a furtive trace of irritation at her apparent capitulation.

  Once outside the door, however, she did not go towards her own apartment but turned purposefully in the opposite direction. A waxing moon floated in the limpid sky as she passed across the cloisters. She did not look up, intent as she was upon the sombre mass of the abbey church. Slipping through back ways which she knew well enough to negotiate in the dark, she avoided the chancel where the nuns were at service and reached the steps which led up to the dorter. There was no light here apart from a faint sliver of grey in a high lancet window, but she did not need light. She was not afraid; within these precincts she was under the protection of Our Lady and all the saints, and the ancient laws of sanctuary. The soft tones of women’s voices intoning the final Hour of the day came to her through the warm night. She pressed her back against the wall, feeling through her gown the solid roughness of the Caen stone, and waited.

  In a haze of torchlight the nuns approached, the susurration of their robes rustling through the silent reaches of the church. Their heads were bowed and their hands, save for those who carried torches, were folded beneath their scapulars: modest, humble, holy. To the casual eye they would have been indistinguishable one from another, but Anne had learned to recognise Soeur Madeleine from weeks of wistful observation. Just as her friend came abreast, Anne stepped out of the darkness and plucked at the nun’s sleeve. Startled out of her contemplation, Soeur Madeleine turned her head sharply. Anne could see her eyes gleaming wide in the shadow of her wimple.

  ‘Sanctuary, I claim sanctuary,’ she whispered hastily. With a bare hesitation the nun allowed Anne to draw her out of the procession, which flowed on undisturbed. The light which accompanied the sisters dwindled, and night closed softly about the two left behind. Soeur Madeleine’s hands sought for the younger girl’s, and held them in a cool clasp which at once began to steady her whirling thoughts.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ The reproach was delivered without severity.

  ‘I know. But I’m in sore trouble, and I had to come to you.’

  ‘You spoke of sanctuary. What did you mean? What has happened?’

  ‘I must take sanctuary. I need protection until Reverend Mother is ready to accept me. She will, won’t she, ma soeur? You will speak for me?’

  ‘Be calm, Anne.’ Soeur Madeleine gentled the trembling girl, and frowned into the darkness over her state of near-hysteria. ‘Tell me quietly what is the matter. Is it your brother-in-law the Duke?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the others as well. They are all against me - against God. They will force me to marry, when I’m promised to God.’

  ‘You are to marry. I see.’

  ‘You’re not surprised....’ A disloyal suspicion rose in Anne’s mind. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘No. But I could have guessed. And so could you.’ The nun restrained her friend’s violent start of protest. ‘If you had not been so wrapped up in your dreams. Your father is a powerful man, and one of the richest in Christendom, I’ve heard. You are a great lady, and his only unmarried daughter.’

  ‘You never warned me—’

  ‘I didn’t think you needed a warning. After all, it’s only girls with impoverished fathers and too many sisters whose destiny leads straight to the nearest convent.’ Her voice held a humorous resignation to her own fate. But Anne’s refuge was beginning to crumble about her.

  ‘You encou
raged me.’

  ‘To be more devout, yes. To increase your love for Our Lord and His Blessed Mother. They are not benefits reserved for those in holy orders. I tried to minister to the health of your soul - the rest of your life is not mine to meddle in.’

  There was a long silence. Anne’s fevered trembling had stopped, and her hands had turned cold. At length she said, steadily and very quietly, ‘Then you won’t help.’

  ‘I can’t, Anne. I would speak to Reverend Mother, if I thought it would do any good. But even if she were convinced of your vocation, she could not go against your father’s authority, any more than I could. You are guests in our house, and to abuse the rules of hospitality would be odious to God.’ There was no further response from Anne. Had Soeur Madeleine not been holding her hands, she would have thought herself alone on the dorter steps, talking to the empty darkness. She drew the slight still body into her arms. ‘It would have given me great joy to see you enter our order and live by our side. Perhaps you do have a vocation. If so, be patient. God will reveal His purpose in His own time. Submit yourself to His will, my dear Anne, and all will be well.’

  Suddenly Anne’s body grew rigid, and flung away from her. ‘It is not the will of God,’ she cried, with a despair that shattered the slumbering calm of the great church. ‘It is the will of my father!’ And she walked away rapidly, her footfalls receding through the deserted aisles until nothing was left but the soundless echo of her cry. Sick with impotence, Soeur Madeleine listened for some time, then returned to the chancel and prostrated herself below the tiny red glow which burned before the Host.

  It was the longest night that Anne had ever endured. The night of her sister’s confinement had been harrowing, but time had seemed to cease. Not like this sluggish crawl of seconds that were minutes, and minutes that were hours, and all of them keeping her from sleep and a release in oblivion. She did not dare to toss and turn, for fear of waking Isabel, and so she bore the agony without moving, except for the occasional squalls of sobs which shook her helplessly. Her mind ran endlessly in the same dark circles of desolation. Everything had failed her; she was alone without comfort in a hostile world. About the time that the birds began to wake to their summer dawn chorus, she remembered the pendant which had so often brought her solace before. But when it was in her hands, the well-loved smooth oval encircled with the miniscule roughness of pink gems did not cast its sure spell. Her separation from Richard had not occurred to her consciously for months; now it struck her with dull panic that she could not even recall his face. He too was absent, miles and years beyond her reach. The sheer misery of the discovery almost sent her to sleep, when the bell for Prime mocked her awake again with bright regular strokes.

  Morning brought at least the relief of routine. Everything was as usual. No one made any untoward comments or noticed that she did not go to the abbey church. It would have been easy to delude herself into believing that last night had been an evil dream, but she had had enough of self-deception. In any case the following day Clarence was back, and it was impossible to misread the glances, mingled spite and contempt, that he sent her way. In the afternoon she undertook to read to Isabel, which was a frustrating task as her sister was apt to tire quickly and ask for a different story every paragraph. But since Anne could bear her own company even less than she could bear that of others, she opened the translation of Boccaccio’s tales with some hope of forgetting herself for a while.

  The weather had turned dull, and Isabel had been placed on a daybed in the Countess’s room by the gentleman who had since their arrival in France carried her everywhere. She was restless, and although her sister chose the shortest tales she would not hear any to the end. As Anne began to lose patience the door was flung open and the Duke stalked in. Waving his hand at the attendants, he said, ‘Go away. I wish to speak to these ladies in private.’ They shuffled out, and Clarence stationed himself before the hearth. He did not bother to dress himself carefully for the sake of his womenfolk and a conventful of nuns. A full-length silk gown of shot scarlet and russet was wrapped casually round him and fastened with a jewelled filigree belt. He surveyed the three women under drooping eyelids. ‘You need not look so apprehensive,’ he said. ‘I bring you good news. And especially happy for you, my dearest sister.’ He bowed ironically to Anne. ‘Our lord Earl is to honour us with his presence before the month is out. I believe he is the bearer of a joyful message.’ Anne was staring down at the open book: letters jumbled together to make nonsensical words, black smudges on a white page.

  ‘I doubt if he will have any message for me worth the hearing, so I’m going hunting. As far as Brittany, possibly. Oh, please don’t distress yourself, madame.’ He took a few paces towards his wife, who like the other two women was listening to his diatribe with eyes averted, masking distaste with indifference. ‘I shall not be gone for long. If your health permitted, I would willingly take you with me. However, I leave you behind as valiant defender of my good name. Your husband’s good name, my lady.’ Isabel did not look at him, but her fingers were plucking nervously at her girdle. There was not only savagery in his voice, but also the pain of deeply wounded pride. He turned his back on them and scowled down into the fireplace.

  The heavy silence was mercifully broken by a servant announcing Mistress Evershed of London. A young woman followed him in, clad in dusty travelling clothes, incongruously cradling a bolt of soft saffron cloth. There was a smear of dirt across her forehead and on the edge of her coif and she looked very tired. As she sank to her knees the Duke moved towards her and offered her his hand, suddenly assuming the charming manner which Warwick’s family now saw so seldom.

  ‘It’s good to see someone I can trust,’ he said as he raised her, and she registered embarrassment at the insult to his kinswomen. Accepting the gift of kersey gracefully, he continued to speak to her, although there was no doubt that it was meant for them. ‘I hope England is prepared for invasion. We do intend to invade, you know, if my good father-in-law can spare the time from revelling with the French king.’ At that, with the same gesture that he had used to the servants earlier, he dismissed them. While she waited for her sister to be carried out, Anne glanced covertly at Mistress Evershed and thought she read a glimmer of shocked sympathy in her eyes.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Isabel as she was laid in the bed they shared.

  ‘John Wrangwysh’s sister,’ Anne answered absently. Isabel’s curiosity had begun lately to revive as she grew stronger.

  ‘How do you know?’ Her sister’s surprise was matched by her own. How had she known? Searching her mind, she was at first only aware that that intelligent face with comprehending grey eyes was connected with some warm place in her memory. Then she remembered.

  ‘We met her once. At Middleham.’ The day when John carved Kat for her. A winter day when the log fire burned in the centre of the hall and a friendship had been forged.

  ‘I don’t remember. What has she come for?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Floundering in a lonely sea of loss Anne could hardly speak.

  ‘I think my husband knows,’ said the Duchess of Clarence, and there was a note of foreboding in her voice.

  Anne came to her decision very late in the night, knowing that she would not sleep until it was made. She rose at first light and said her prayers to St Anne at the prie-dieu in her bedchamber before seeking from a drowsy and grumbling Ankarette the information she needed. Janet Evershed had been given an apartment in another wing of the guest-house. Loitering outside her door, Anne saw nobody but her redhaired journeyman, who did not notice her as he hurried past on some errand. It was past Tierce before the young woman emerged, folding back her linen cuffs. Anne went forward quickly.

  ‘Will you be seeing the Duke of Gloucester, Mistress Evershed?’ Surprise as well as courtesy had arrested Janet’s brisk progress. Now it turned to puzzlement as she answered cautiously that she was not sure.

  ‘You must have some way of reaching him - through your brother, perhaps
? There is something I must return to him - if you would take it for me. There’s no one else I can ask.’ John’s sister hesitated, slow to commit herself, nonplussed by the unexpected request and the fervour with which it was made. The pendant was burning in Anne’s palm, searing her with a brand of guilt and betrayal. If it was not taken from her soon all her courage would trickle away and she would not be able to part with it. Janet’s gaze, met her own, searching, and softened.

  ‘I’ll take it for you, my lady.’ One swift movement and it was out of her hands; she was rid of it.

  ‘Just give it to him - he will understand.’ A loop of gold chain was still visible, gleaming faintly. It was too much. She turned and ran from it, anywhere, nowhere. Where she went no longer mattered, since every way was away from him.

  Warwick rode in a week later, Bertrand de Josselin at his side in all the panoply of a special envoy of the King of France. The clatter and chatter of English soldiers and French gentlemen transformed the old buildings into a court in miniature where the ordered tolling of the service bells was quite out of place. For half a day the Earl left Anne alone, but after supper she was called to the chamber which had been put at his disposal. De Josselin was there, resting his arm negligently along the overmantel; Anne had never known anyone, even the Duke of Clarence, to behave with such disrespect in her father’s presence. But he did not seem offended.

  He waved her to a stool by the window, although she was accustomed to standing before him. She was about to take her seat when she realised that de Josselin had not moved. With a surge of indignation she drew herself up and stared in mute defiance at the foppish Frenchman. If her life sentence was to be pronounced it would not be to the cynical ears of this musician-diplomat-spy. He glanced at Warwick, and lifting his shoulders and eyebrows slightly he walked without haste from the room. There was, to Anne’s chagrin, more amusement and approval than annoyance in the glance. She sat down.