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

by Lesley Nickell

  4: THE COOK-MAID

  She could not believe it. The pendant hung in its old place under the bodice of her gown as if it had never been away. Waking the next morning, she fancied herself back in the convent at

  Valognes: the whitewashed walls, the high window admitting a thin stream of sunlight, and Richard’s token around her neck. In those drowsy moments the year between was no more and she was at peace. Full consciousness soon peopled the darkness where the sun did not reach with the lurking things she had briefly forgotten. Her twilight interview with the Duke of Gloucester took its place among them, no nearer and no more real than her wedding night and the infirmary of Tewkesbury Abbey. All she could be sure of was the keepsake which, somehow, had returned to her, and the nebulous hope that clung to it.

  It was not the quiet alleys of the Norman sanctuary that lay outside her sleeping-cell but the City of London, in fierce holiday mood, ready to acclaim its restored King and to execrate its fallen Queen. Anne was well to the rear of the cavalcade which stretched for several miles from the Duke of Gloucester at its head to the camp-followers straggling at the end, basking in their own fag-end of the glory. Narrow streets, shouting people and pealing bells were hell to her, even with senses impaired. And yet ahead of her, some half a mile out of sight, another woman was deeper in hell: Margaret of Anjou was dragged through London in an open chariot. Had it not been for the delicacy of the King’s younger brother, her widowed daughter-in-law might have been sharing her shame, instead of being concealed behind the curtains of a litter.

  Anne knew nothing of that; she knew the relief of turning out of the main way into the comparative hush of a side street.

  When the litter stopped she had no idea where she was, and did not care. A young squire drew the curtains and helped her down into the courtyard of a large house. With a deference that had for long been foreign to her she was met by the steward and taken within. At the door of the solar the decorum was dispersed by a plump girl who threw her arms round Anne and burst into tears. Through the smothering embrace Anne recognised with difficulty her sister Isabel.

  For the rest of the day she would not leave Anne alone. Her behaviour repelled Anne, who had been ignored for so long that she had come to dislike human contact. She shrank from Isabel’s incoherent outpourings of emotion, her clutchings and strokings. One thing only lit a spark of pleasure in her: Ankarette Twynyho, her old ally from the disastrous voyage to Normandy, was still in the Duchess’s service and was among the attendants assigned to her.

  Isabel soon tired of her sister’s unresponsiveness. The meek and attentive auditor she had hoped to regain, to shore up her crumbled vanity, was so withdrawn behind her pale drained face that she seemed hardly to be conscious. Isabel had not yet admitted to herself that her figure was spoiled and her hair lack-lustre, but, deprived of the admiration she thrived on, she was taking less and less care of her appearance. Anne was thoughtless, she said to herself, neither to thank her for her hospitality nor to declare how much she had missed her sister. And she retired to bed to sulk with a bowl of sugared almonds.

  That night Anne had a dream. It was so vivid that she came to herself reluctantly, trembling with an intensity which was absent from her waking life. Under its ravishing influence she strove to return and plunge again into its depths, but beyond the bed-curtains her attendants were laying out her clothes and preparing her toilet, making the humdrum little noises that destroy illusions. Resigned to its loss, she lay still and savoured the departing echo of its richness. She had not dreamed like that since before her betrothal. And as her mind roused, she began to comprehend why. Last summer, in France, God had called to her in the same way, and His purpose had been thwarted by the Earl of Warwick. But Soeur Madeleine had assured her that He would not give her up if He needed her. Now that her earthly father’s commands were discharged, had not her Father in Heaven renewed His assault? So much reasoning tired her. Yet as the flat light of another purposeless day flooded through the opened shutters, she knew a wistful desire to abandon herself to the loving passionate presence of her sleep.

  There was a prie-dieu in her chamber, and like a homing bird she went to it after mass and breaking her fast. Her sister, having whispered to her throughout the service, did not pursue her. If she showed God how devout she was, if she were allowed the time to call upon Him, perhaps He would give her a sure sign and tell her what to do. Crossing herself, she encountered the pendant that hung accidently outside her bodice, and for a moment she was disconcerted. But Richard would understand. She began the Credo.

  Until dinner the next day she was left to her devotions. She dined with the Duchess in her solar, and Isabel chattered on without waiting for any replies, pressing food on her sister and referring endlessly to their sad bereavements and to how ill she looked. The second course was being cleared away when her conversation faltered, and a furtive fear chased away her animation. The company shuffled to its feet, licking fingers and knives surreptitiously, and offered its duty to the master of the house. Clarence strolled down the room, taking no notice of his household, and cast his cloak carelessly in the direction of an oak chest. Anne could not help being aware that he was making for her. There was a skirmish at the head of the table as people were shunted away and a chair placed to the right of the Duchess. But the Duke ignored it and leant instead over his wife’s shoulder, taking a knife from his belt and stabbing it into a chunk of beef that had not yet been removed.

  ‘Well, sister,’ he said with his mouth full, ‘there’s another of our enemies despatched to a place where he can do no more mischief.’ Some of the servants rustled, and the men-at-arms who had followed Clarence’s entrance and his example with the dinner nodded knowingly at each other. The two ladies stared at their platters in ignorance. ‘They’re not ringing the bells, though it would seem a fitting epitaph for one so reputedly holy.’ His followers sniggered. ‘Your mother-inlaw has already been informed - the news hadn’t far to travel to her but I don’t suppose anyone has bothered to tell you. The old King has died in the Tower. Apparently he was so disillusioned by the wickedness of this world that he gave up the ghost voluntarily to find a better one.’

  Fishing a piece of gristle from between his teeth with the point of the knife, Clarence watched his sister-in-law with interest, but he gained no satisfaction. She did not flinch or cry, and she remained so unmoved that she might not have heard. Like his wife, he found that Anne was no longer a good listener. Isabel, easily affected, began to snuffle a little, but soon stopped when Clarence demanded acidly what concern it was of hers if the crazy old fool of a king had finally consented to give up breathing, which he should have done years ago. Then he sat down and ordered some more beef, beans and a stoup of wine.

  ‘Best malmsey,’ he called. ‘We must celebrate the removal of a great danger to our royal brother’s throne.’ He would have been happier if he could have seen in Anne’s mind the slow sad procession of thoughts: the gentle man with the bird who had smiled on her childhood, the saintly wanderer who had so wrongfully been shut up in prison, the aspirations to do him good that had given her strength to go through with her marriage, they were gone. For the rest of the meal, avoiding the curious glances of the Duke, she recited mentally the prayers for the faithful departed.

  She could not avoid Clarence when he interrupted her afternoon’s reading from her book of hours. He was accompanied by two gentlemen, almost as sumptuously dressed as himself, but wearing in their caps instead of their own cognizances the badge of the Duke of Clarence. They remained by the door, casually lounging shoulder to shoulder over the entrance. Anne stood before her brother-in-law, while the attendant who had been sewing in the window-seat scuttled away at her lord’s signal.

  ‘I trust you are satisfied with our hospitality,’ said Clarence. ‘Yes, my lord is most gracious.’

  ‘It is my duty to care for a kinswoman so tragically deprived of her family. I’m sure your noble father would have approved of my assuming respon
sibility for you. After all, he entrusted his elder daughter to me with his own hands - even if he thought better of it later.’ The irony could not fail to reach Anne through the armour of her indifference. He saw her slight shrinking from his implication and pressed his advantage. ‘But I assure you, dearest sister, that I shall not change my mind and abandon you. I intend to make sure that you are safe from all harm for the rest of your life.’ Stepping up to her, he took her chin in his fingers and forced her to meet his eyes. In the depths of hers the blank grey was troubled by a shadow of dread. ‘But in return for my good offices, it’s only just that I should ask for cooperation. You do agree, sister?’ Unable to nod, Anne mouthed consent.

  ‘Then hear me. You are under my protection and mine alone. There’s no need for any interference from anyone else, however powerful. The King himself has committed you to my custody, and he will expect that charge to be fulfilled. If you should appeal to another for assistance, in words or in writing, it would be looked upon by his grace, and of course by me also, as disloyalty to his wishes.’ A cold prickle ran down her backbone. She did not yet grasp his meaning, but she read the casual cruelty in the hand that held her captive. ‘For your own safety, Anne. There are those who may seek to use you for their own ends - especially in the places where you would look only for friends.’ The sympathetic tone did not deceive her. When he released her she could hardly keep her balance. ‘I am instructing all my people to look to you, so you need have no fears, even when I’m absent.’ The two gentlemen guarding the door exchanged glances. Inclining his head graciously, Clarence left, and with equally correct courtesies and not quite hidden insolence his companions followed.

  Accustomed throughout her life to sense the moods beneath words rather than to interpret the words themselves, Anne was left in no doubt as to her brother-in-law’s attitude. His oblique phrases and expressions of concern amounted to one thing: she was helpless and at his mercy. She still held her book of hours, and with all the fervency she was capable of she applied to the only source of assistance which the Duke of Clarence could not forbid.

  Her respite had not lasted long. Once more she was watched, by eyes either uninterested or hostile. Isabel avoided her and even Ankarette seemed embarrassed to speak to her. The Duke was seldom there, but his influence hung over the house and he was obeyed as if he were present. It did not occur to Anne to question why she was being so treated. Once, however, at mealtime, which was the only occasion on which she met her sister, she asked if their mother would be coming to London soon. The Duchess peered round her guiltily before whispering that the Countess was still at Beaulieu and it would be best not to mention the subject. Resigned to mystery, Anne said no more.

  As always she took refuge in prayer, and in this direction she met no check and no disapproval.

  Repentance would bring her closer to God, and He might soon issue a command which would outweigh those of the Duke of Clarence. Unexpectedly, she began to wonder if the wishes of the greater and the lesser lord were necessarily in conflict.

  During one of his visitations the Duke addressed her suddenly. ‘I hear you spend much time at your devotions. My wife’s confessor speaks well of you.’ Anne bowed her head mutely. Although his tone was pleasant enough, she could not believe that there would be no sting in the sequel. Yet all he added was, ‘Your lady mother is still at Beaulieu. She is considering whether to take the veil.’ Could he be edging her towards the path she was groping for herself?

  Like all other complex problems, it was beyond her powers of reasoning, so she continued to earn the praise of the confessor and began to practise small deprivations: fasting throughout Fridays, waking herself to say her offices in the night. If it had been winter she would have worn thin clothes, but spring was warming into summer and that would have been no hardship. Despite the absence of ecstatic daytime visions she was rewarded by another dream. Quivering awake in a glow of perspiration, she found she was clutching, not her crucifix, but the pendant that she kept in its old hiding-place beneath her pillow. Richard, she thought for a moment. Would Richard understand? She had no means of knowing, and, exchanging St Anthony and St Anne for her Saviour, she began to repeat Prime silently, so as not to disturb the girl asleep at her side.

  But doubt about Richard began to prey on her mind. There was nobody she could turn to for advice, nobody whom she could trust for a disinterested opinion about this most important decision of her life. Except for the Duke of Gloucester. A daring resolution hardened in her to write and ask him what he thought - daring because she had never before written an unsolicited letter. Ankarette looked askance when she requested writing materials, and more doubtful when given the note to be delivered where my lord of Gloucester lay. However, she took it, and Anne’s heart lightened a little as it left her hands. It had been a trial for her composing even so simple a message, but now she could return to her missal and leave the issue to God and to Richard.

  Clarence broke in upon her two evenings later as she prepared for bed. In sudden guilty haste Ankarette snatched up Anne’s bedgown, wrapped it around her, and hurried from the room without meeting her gaze. Tall and inexorable he stood over her, and the diamond clasp at his throat winked balefully at her like a third cold eye.

  ‘Madame, you are a treacherous ingrate!’ The vicious accusation did not cut as deeply as the sight of the scrap of paper in his fingers, inscribed in her own unpractised hand, ‘For the Lord Duke of Gloucester’. His reading of the few lines so laboriously penned was such violation of her privacy that she could see no further. But then he tossed the letter contemptuously into her lap and said, ‘Explain yourself.’ She could not explain what she did not comprehend. There was no crime in what she had written. Clarence chose to read guilt into her silence. ‘So much for your faith. You swore to me that you would trust to my protection, yet here you are attempting to smuggle begging letters out to the very man I warned you against.’

  To that she must reply. ‘Oh, no, my lord. I wrote only to my cousin of Gloucester.’

  ‘Only? And am I to believe that you know nothing of my brother’s dangerous ambition? Would you make an alliance with one who seeks through you to lay hands on your own mother’s inheritance?’ Mock concern honeyed his voice. ‘No doubt he beguiled you with promises of love or some such idleness. It is easy in your position to be deceived. And just for that reason I am keeping you close. Until the self-seekers grow weary and look for other victims. But until then, you will abide by my rules and my instructions. For your own sake.’ Before she could move to protect it Clarence had taken up her note again. ‘Most particularly, you will not communicate with my brother of Gloucester, nor above all receive him. If you do so, you will sadly distress your sister and your lady mother.’ His tone lightened. ‘Besides, the Duke of Gloucester is out of town, and it is not known when he will return.’ For a tormenting second he swung the little missive between thumb and forefinger; then deliberately he tore it into pieces.

  The fragments fluttered lazily in the wake of his going, and settled among the rushes. Anne felt that her reason lay with them, scattered into meaningless shreds. What he had said of Richard was beyond belief, and yet it was beyond belief that he could so malign his own brother. Stupefied by that first blow, Clarence’s final barbs could not yet hurt her. She was still staring down at the debris of her cry for help when Isabel came to her, patting her with anxious intruding hands.

  ‘What did he do, Anne? Did he hurt you?’

  Anne recoiled from her touch and her concern. ‘Nothing. No.’

  ‘He was with me when Ankarette brought him your letter. He fell into such a passion that I thought he would harm her for letting you write it. She was very frightened. But he let her alone, and we knew he would go to you instead. Oh, Anne, why did you do it? He can’t abide to be reminded of our brother of Gloucester.’

  ‘Why?’ It was not a request for information, but Isabel took it as such and launched into involved explanations of politics that she no more t
han half understood herself. The busy tripping voice nagged at the edge of Anne’s consciousness, but the sense did not penetrate. She wanted to be left alone in her desert. Disappointed that her sister was not crying, as she did still whenever she was the butt of her husband’s disapproval, Isabel soon decided that she had done her humane duty and went back to her apartments. Anne did not move. Too ashamed of her betrayal to return, Ankarette left her unattended. Not until the untrimmed candle guttered smokily did she stir, to snuff it and stretch herself open-eyed on the bed.

  The wounds that Clarence had dealt her unnoticed began to ache the next day. And for a wilderness of days after that she brooded over them, powerless to cure, unable to forget. That Richard had deceived her, that he had gone away without a word to her, was inconceivable, but ever the doubt worried at her and would not let her rest. She could not sleep and she could not pray, and no one came to distract her except a chastened Ankarette, who slunk around her shamefaced and escaped as soon as her duty was done. Anne’s fifteenth birthday passed unmarked, and she sat and did nothing. Life was not interested in her, and she had little interest in life either.

  The door opened on her one morning, and the fall of riding boots roused her to the one strong emotion that was still hers: fear of the Duke of Clarence. She half rose in a mist of panic as he advanced, and then her vision cleared. Her knees gave beneath her and she sank to the floor before Richard’s concerned frown. His hands reached for hers and remotely, as if she held them before a distant blaze, she felt the warmth transferring slowly into her fingers. He said something about not kneeling, calling her by her name, and as his life spread upwards into her arms she stood facing him.

  ‘I prayed for you to come,’ she said, although the prayer had been made by her heart and not her lips. Miraculously he was restoring her power of thought. There were none of Clarence’s gentlemen leaning negligently against the door like jailors. ‘But how did you get in? He said he would not let you see me.’