It might have been exasperation at her listlessness that made Old Mary cuff her one morning when she spilt some grease on the freshly scrubbed trestle top. For a moment shock shuddered through her body and started into her eyes. Then she went meekly to fetch a dish-clout and clean up the mess. It was taken as a signal that Nan was fair game. There was no more help for her. Petronilla was sullen or haughty and the groom and the stable lad did not offer to carry her heaviest buckets. They talked behind her back but never to her, and they tried to think of ways to ‘push her off her high-and-mighty perch’. Their satisfaction was little enough. Anne scarcely noticed them or their pinpricks. She dragged through the day in a haze which was motivated by one ambition only: to be tired enough to fall asleep before the bed-bugs awoke.
There was one person who talked to her, or as near as he could come to talking, and he was below her in the whipping-order. The turnspit was called Dog, for some forgotten reason, and he might have been eight or thirteen, so underdeveloped was he. He was not good at speaking, or at anything else except turning the spit for hours at a time, which he sometimes seemed to do in his sleep. As Anne knelt washing the flags he would crawl over to her and say things, disjointed phrases that meant very little, but his goodwill was evident, because he would bring her scraps of food, lumps of meat and crusts of bread saved from the day before. He did not appear to eat anything himself. And she responded to the creature, recognising in him someone in worse case than herself and yet showing generosity in his wretchedness. She could not stop his being beaten when he fell asleep at the spit, and she could do nothing about the baiting of him that went on in the yard, barking at him, pretending to snap at him, kicking him as if he were indeed the dog of his name. But she did nudge him awake whenever she found him nodding, and once or twice she surreptitiously turned the spit for him when nobody was looking and she was briefly free. After such incidents he would sidle up to her with an air of wagging his tail, and present to her most of his day’s ration of food. She did not eat his offerings, because her own appetite was diminishing, but she accepted them.
The featureless days were losing their heat, and the dawn queues at the pump becoming more reluctant, when her relationship with Dog was violently altered. She was peeling onions at the table - normally she did not touch the vegetables, but this was not a popular chore and she was too occupied with the handicap of impaired sight to notice Dog. The first thing she knew was a hand sliding beneath her kirtle, groping upwards. Starting to her feet, she let out the scream which nothing else had been able to shock from her. She retreated blindly and drew her hand across her smarting eyes, assailed by confused memories of her sister in tears and a disdainful young man in a darned nightshirt far more terrible than the fumbling which had provoked them. People came running at her cry and converged on a figure, dimly perceived, who grovelled near her stool.
There were other shrieks now, in a high-pitched childish voice that she knew, and through it Old Mary said to her, ‘We saw what he did. It’s not the first time. He’s a lewd rascal. You should have known better than to encourage him.’ Then to the mass of people, ‘Take him outside. Tam will teach him.’ And, still shrieking mindlessly, Dog was dragged into the courtyard. Anne could hear what happened, even the fall of the ostler’s crop on the boy’s back and the howl that arose with each stroke. She cowered against the table, sick with loathing. But when they brought him back, and dropped him into his usual place in the hearth, she had to look at him, and she found she did not hate him. He was so puny and forlorn, and his back was bleeding a little through his torn shirt; he was lying so still that perhaps they had killed him. Compassion had nearly overcome her fear, and she was about to go to him when she was forestalled. One of the girls came back and splashed cold water briskly over the boy’s back. Then she hoisted him up by the neck of his shirt and thrust a mug of ale against his mouth. He revived at the scent of the drink and gulped some of it down. The girl left him, having made the prescribed gestures of charity, and as soon as she was gone he threw up all he had taken. Anne returned to her task, and she was not sure whether the tears she shed were induced by the onions or by pity.
He did not try to speak to her again. Indeed, although he seemed to recover from his punishment and resumed his simple duties, he scarcely ever moved from his chimney-corner, preferring to sleep away the meal breaks. Often Anne would come from her chilly morning bed to find him still lying in the same place, his head pillowed on a dry log. It was difficult to wake him, but she would usually make an effort, if only to clear the ground for her first labour. His face grew more peaked as he ate less and less.
But Anne gave little consideration to Dog’s plight. Although familiarity might in time have eased her lot, the daily routine was instead becoming harder for her to sustain. Each dawn was more difficult to face. As the first frosts came with October a curtain was hung before the open doorway of the dormitory, but it did not keep out the shivers and the nip in the toes. There was much grumbling when their cockerel Old Mary crowed the girls from their pallets. Nobody, however, failed to rise at the call except Anne, who was generally so drugged with broken sleep that a great effort of will was necessary to move at all. This was looked upon as arrant laziness, and as often as not the stout arm of the old woman provided the spur to lift her from her bed. Her tiredness eventually brought the threat of a whipping if it did not stop, but even that was no incentive. On a dull damp day near Hallowmas, Old Mary took the birch to her. With her head wedged ignominiously beneath her tormentor’s armpit, she endured the pain as she endured the rest, in silence. She was not aware of the expressions of the spectators - nervously self-righteous, disappointed again by her lack of feeling.
It was all merging into one for Anne. For a week after the beating she could not lie on her back, but it was no worse than the icy shock of the water on her head in the half-light of the courtyard, the stiff numbness of her hands and knees as she shuffled across the flagstones with her scrubbing-brush, the interminable journeys from sweaty kitchen to fogbound yard, the crawling chill of her pallet. They were less real than the dreams that again began to visit her, vividly shaking the depths of her exhausted sleep. Not from God - He had deserted her with everyone else - but profane dreams which she knew were sinful even as she surrendered to their delight. Nothing solid endured into the unfriendly dawn, but once or twice, just before the influence fled from the encroaching cold, she caught a glimpse of who had been sharing the dream with her. Her pendant was still with her, a last reminder of the hope she had flung away, and she touched it halfunwillingly to banish the unholy image.
If she had not been the protégée of Master Twynyho they would not have kept her. She was becoming more and more idle, more and more uncaring about the way she did her work. They would find her sometimes with her arms in a bowl of fast-cooling soapy water, staring at vacancy, and the grease congealing on the dinner platters. Had she been ill, or in love, her behaviour might have been excusable, but apart from a recurring cold and cough she seemed quite hale, and she never went to any place where she could be meeting a lover. They did not dare to whip her too much either, in case the master should capriciously decide to ask after the cook-maid he was sheltering under his roof. Surreptitious cuffs, however, left no mark, and those in authority in the kitchen used them when punishment was required, although Nan showed no signs of mending her ways.
One event did leave an impression on her failing mind. Dog was thrashed again, for his old crime of sleeping at his post, and soon afterwards he began to cough. It was no ordinary cough, but one that tore through the clatter and bustle of the kitchen for minutes at a time. He was dosed with throat-soothing syrup, to promote the general peace of the staff, but it had no effect. After several days of it he was too weak to turn the spit, and it was clear even to the indifferent eyes of his workmates that he was very ill.
As Petronilla was passing one morning she said, quick and sharp, ‘He’s bleeding!’ He was coughing blood, which spattered his improv
ised straw bed. They took him away and Anne did not see him again. She thought of paying for a mass for him, but she had no money and no energy to walk as far as the church.
It was very cold, and fog writhed round the ill-fitting curtain and wandered about the dormitory, muffling the rushlights that the girls used for rising and retiring. They had pushed their pallets together and slept curled up with each other for the warmth, like a cluster of hibernating dormice. Anne was not included, and she was chilled even in her sleep, except when the flames of her dreams lent an illusory and shameful heat. There was no misery in her heart now, no regret and no hope; all her life was smothered in the fog of weariness. She was totally cut off from the people around her; even their rough contacts, to shake her out of bed or chastise her, did not really touch her. Her tasks were performed on the other side of the fog, by arms and legs which had no direct connection with her, Anne Neville who once was. Now she no longer knew what she was, or where, or anything but that she wanted to sleep.
Perhaps she was stirring the stock-pot, and it might have been for supper; she had been doing it for a long time, round and round with the ladle that scraped on the bottom, scratching against the crackle of flames and some huger noise which was behind her. Round and round, and the puffs of steam from the stew and the monotony made her eyes close and her head nod, until the clatter of a dish close by woke her again. Round and round, and then there was something different to rouse her, not a noise but a silence close beside her. With the last dregs of her will she raised her head, and he was there, on the far side of the wall of mist, but there, and his hand was reaching to her through the gloom. She was too soiled and wretched to be able to go to him. Automatically she wiped her fingers down her apron.
It was a nebulous touch, a faint and faraway clasp, but it was drawing her after him, away from the hearth and through the door she had never passed. A man was in the doorway that could have been Master Twynyho if she could have remembered what he looked like, but he was wringing his hands and ducking his head in an odd fashion. Then it was dark, and light again, and there were long tunnels and steep steps, and at last a draught of bitter night air. All the way he was ahead of her, pulling her along by the hand that was beginning to tingle slightly, and was the only part of her not to be struck by the frost. A horse loomed up, moving restlessly, and she was swung on to its back. He was behind her now; the length of his body was close enough to push away the mist. When he wrapped his cloak around her, binding her to him, they were together inside the hostile barrier of fog, like the girls in their dormouse sleep. He might have spoken to her, but she retained no memory of it, only the profound slow-kindling spark which was stirring in the ashes of her heart.
5: THE AWAKENING
He had gone when she woke, and as usual she sought to burrow back into her slumber and recapture her dream before the crude call of morning. An angelic dream, she thought
hazily, wholesome and kindly, unlike the wild thrilling visions of before... and she sank into sleep again. Consciousness drifted back with a sense of something lacking. No furtive scrabblings of insects, no rustling of straw, no shivering; and no summons. She opened her eyes on the familiar wreaths of intrusive fog, but it was daylight, and an old man was sitting there, a frill of white hair round his shaven red crown. Instead of shaking her and shouting he smiled at her. So long since anyone had smiled at her, she hardly knew what it meant. But it meant that miraculously she was left in her bed to doze. Then there was a gentle arm about her shoulders, urging her to lift her head, and a spoonful of hot broth pressed to her lips. The aroma almost made her retch after long fasting, but with kindly insistence she was made to swallow it, and two spoonfuls more. The monk said, ‘Rest now, my child,’ and she understood the soothing tone of the voice though not the words.
She slept and slept, waking only to take a little broth or curds from the same elderly monk. And gradually the uneasiness in her mind, the fearful waiting for a command to rise and be about her business, was lulled into restfulness. On the beams above her head, sometimes an insipid patch of sunlight would appear, and drowsily, between naps, she would mark its journey across the ceiling, humping adroitly over the rafters in its path, and disappearing just as her nurse brought her midday broth. She grew quite interested in it, and missed it on the days when the sun did not shine. Many days of sunshine, and more without, passed before she began to wonder where she was. It was far simpler to let be, not to question for fear of disturbing the miraculous peace. The old man who tended her spoke seldom, finding that he could convey more with smiles and gentleness. Even on the occasions when she could not keep down her minute food helpings, he would smile patiently, clean her up, and try to make her take more. They had exchanged barely a score of words when she summoned the strength to ask, ‘What is this place?’
‘You are in the sanctuary of St Martin-le-Grand, my daughter.’ She had none of the hardihood necessary for the next step; if that cloudy memory proved to be part of her sleep all this goodness would be in vain; she might as well go back to her scrubbing and have done. But in his mercy the old monk anticipated her. ‘His grace of Gloucester left you in our keeping. He gave very particular instructions about your care - forgetting perhaps that we would do as much for any of God’s children under our rule of charity.’ In her mind’s eye Anne saw suddenly a clear picture of Richard, with a slight crease between his brows, gravely instructing the brothers of St Martin’s in their Christian duty. With a wonderful sense of freedom she returned the monk’s smile, and managed to finish the coddled eggs he had brought for her.
Richard came on a morning when the luminous light on the rafters told her snow was falling outside. There were still flakes of it lying halfmelted on his sleeves and entangled in the brown hair at his temples. They looked at each other without speaking, until the snowflakes had turned into damp on the cloth. Then he bent and kissed her forehead.
‘A merry Christmas, Anne.’
‘Christmas? Is it Christmas?’
‘Indeed it is. Three days since. Today is Childermas.’ How
appropriate, he thought, for this hurt innocent, and he swallowed his rising emotion. Still grey-pale in the pallid reflection from the snow, at least now there was something living in her. On that ride to the sanctuary a month ago, he had feared that she would die in his arms. ‘The brothers tell me that you have been no trouble to them.’ Her old monk, reading in the corner, beamed absently. Another silence fell, and Richard, wanting to say one thing above all, could keep it back no longer.
‘Anne, the king has given Middleham to me.’ The infirmarian had warned him not to excite her, but ever since the summer, through all adversity, he had cherished the prospect of telling her at last. Now he was rewarded by the limpid happiness that for a moment transformed her pinched face.
‘Oh, Richard,’ she whispered, for she knew that her dream was his too, and always had been.
‘I’ve also been given the lordship of the North Marches towards Scotland. Will you come and help me to govern for my brother?’
‘Yes. As soon as you wish it.’ His joy was clouded briefly by the recollection of the uneasy situation he had left at Westminster: the persistent truculence of a George enraged by defeat, Edward’s attempts to satisfy the two brothers whose objects were diametrically opposed. But there was no need to worry Anne with problems which would, the King had given his word, be smoothed out in due course.
‘As soon as you’re well.’ Anne was a little shamefacedly relieved. She was prepared to follow Richard to the limits of her strength, but at present those limits were very close, and she could not bear to fail him. He saw the tiny relaxation, and judged that it was time to go. Yet she was loath to let him. Guessing it, Richard promised to return each week, and before he left he kissed her again. The light touch of his lips seemed to linger after him, and when she closed her eyes Anne could fancy that he was still with her.
Every week he visited her, and as her health improved she progressed from praying th
at he would come, to hoping, and finally to knowing that he would. He sat with her and talked to her, mainly of what he intended to do in the North, and with her growing vitality she began to join in. Only once did he refer to the past. It was to explain that the credit for discovering her whereabouts belonged not to him but to John Wrangwysh’s sister Janet.
‘She has suffered in our service,’ he smiled. ‘Waiting outside the White Tower through a foggy afternoon to give me the news gave her nothing but a bad chill.’
‘We must thank her,’ said Anne, and he agreed. Discussing suitable rewards, neither thought to wonder whence came Janet Evershed’s information; they never asked her.
For his part, while he was with Anne inside the walls of the greatest sanctuary in London, Richard could shake off for a few hours the depression induced by his brother’s continued opposition to his marriage. The wheels were grinding slowly towards a settlement in Richard’s favour, but the result was likely to embitter George for ever against him. In terms of property Clarence should have had no complaints: the richer share of Warwick’s estates would go to him. Yet however much King Edward might concede to placate his second brother, he would revoke neither his gift of the Yorkshire properties to Richard, nor permission for his marrying Anne. And Clarence, who had intended to make a clean sweep of his father-in-law’s possessions, was irreconcilable. To watch the life returning, day by day, to the empty shell of a girl he had salvaged from the kitchen of Francis Twynyho restored Richard’s own spirit also.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 21