‘There’s one more thing I must ask you to do for me. Lady Stanley
- I know you must feel that she dislikes you, but it is probably no more than her manner. It is necessary to conciliate her, and any other potential hostile factions. I am making her your train-bearer.’
Anne stiffened, gasped, and subsided. ‘If you wish it, my lord.’ So she would have answered her father. Reasons of state must prevail, and a sop to the pride of Margaret Beaufort was inevitably a wound in her own.
The colours hurt her head. Scarlet and saffron, azure and cloth-of-gold, they shifted and jigged around her, conspiring with the bray of trumpets, the bay of sackbuts, the jangling of bells, the roaring of crowds, and the all-pervading heat of the day, clashing and grinding against the pain in her skull. Early as it was, the sweat slithered down her body inside the heavy robes and her bare feet left wet patches on the ceremonial carpet. She knew that, and that somewhere near Richard was walking, also barefoot, also weighed down with too many clothes, and she remembered the long sleepless reaches of last night, but everything else was confusion. By the sudden coolness and dimness, the change in the quality of the cacophony, she sensed they had entered the Abbey, and that before her lay a ritual of such complexity and solemnity that her remaining self-mastery would crumble beneath the first invocation.
It was perhaps only her early training as a Neville that pulled her through it, those tedious occasions when the small daughter of the Earl of Warwick must stand up straight, conceal her cold, or her cough, or her headache, and be a credit to the greatest family in the land. Now she was crowned Queen of England; Warwick the Kingmaker might rest contented in his tomb, yet she wanted nothing else in the world but to be in bed and asleep. With scarcely a respite the ceremonies went on, chanting and genuflexion and processions and changes of clothes, and then an endless banquet amid the same loud multicoloured hordes. As evening drew on the sultry heat was aggravated by thousands of candles and torches.
Sometimes it seemed to Anne that she was at another banquet, many miles and many years away, and instead of being too hot it was too cold, and her uncle George was the new Archbishop of York and she had a fever. A little girl out of her depth; she felt the same here. One incident only had made her feel real on that winter day at Cawood: the concern of her cousin Richard. Where was he now? King Richard III sat at her side, crowned, robed, served as she was on bended knee, and as remote as the stars in heaven. He was one of the monarchs in the old tapestries, and so she supposed was she, raised so high above common mortals by God’s chrism that they did not even breathe common air. Sanctified, and inhuman. He would not ask her how she did, or touch her hand, or give her one of those slow smiles which had reassured her across the board at Middleham. Her chest felt tight, and she was suddenly certain that she could not survive up here, in the rarefied atmosphere where love must die.
It was no surprise to anyone who knew her when the Queen did not emerge from her chamber the following morning, and remained invisible to all but her closest friends for several days. Richard came, of course, although he had not slept with her for some nights, and showed his customary kindness. In it, however, Anne’s heightened sensitivity found a lingering remoteness which she saw as a reproach for her lack of stamina. The heat continued, and intensified the stifling atmosphere of London. As soon as she was fit Richard moved with her and his advisers to Greenwich.
Set in wide meadows by the broadening Thames, the palace recalled no trace of memory of the only other time she had visited it. Then it had been a vast echoing place, damp and empty from neglect, and she had met King Henry with his goldfinch. King Edward had renovated it to the standard of almost continental splendour which he loved to bring to his residences. The air was fresher here, the crowds farther away, and Anne began to mend. But she was not well enough to leave with the King on his first royal progress to the west. She tried to insist, but had not the energy even to carry her point.
‘You shall join me later,’ Richard decided, ‘at Warwick before I go north. I cannot do without you in Yorkshire.’ And, to avoid making her feel useless, he assured her that there were many duties in the capital which only she could do in his absence. The haste to leave was not entirely necessary, but Richard also had had enough of London. He did not tell his wife that one of his stops would be at Tewkesbury Abbey, where were buried her first husband, her sister, and his brother George.
They travelled together to Windsor and there he left her, only two weeks after their coronation. Such duties as were allotted to her were light, and she spent much time riding and walking gently among the great summer trees of Windsor Forest. The prospect of seeing Richard again within a short time, and beyond that of returning to Yorkshire and her son, encouraged her recuperation.
Among the visitors she had to receive was one whom, short though his stay was, she could not welcome wholeheartedly. It was the Duke of Buckingham, who for some reason had not left London with the King, but passed through Windsor in his wake a few days later, intending to catch him up around Gloucester. Naturally he would pay his respects to the Queen and eat dinner with her before going on. It was difficult for Anne to be more than barely civil to him: for one thing she saw him as the successful rival in the battle for control of Richard’s will and blamed him, however irrationally, for his accepting the throne; for another, he was one of those easy charming men who had always filled her with disquiet. So puffed up with his new power, with selfcongratulation for having thrown his weight on to the right side in an uncertain situation - she could not conceive how Richard could trust or like him, although he did both in great measure. That she could in fact be a better judge of his character than her husband did not enter her head.
Buckingham asked if he could bear any message to the King, but she had none she cared to send by such a courier. As he took his leave he said sympathetically, ‘It must be a sorrow to you, that you were unable to pay your respects with his grace at your sister’s tomb.’ Then he bent over her hand, not seeing her reaction to the news which Richard had withheld from her to spare her feelings. For she knew well that it was not Isabel’s grave that he would be honouring in Tewkesbury Abbey but that of Isabel’s husband, who despite all his crimes had never fallen entirely from his throne in Richard’s heart. Whether Buckingham was even aware of the persecution Anne had suffered was doubtful, but as he rode away amid his red-and-gold retainers his parting remark had not endeared him to his Queen.
They set off for Warwick a few days after Buckingham’s visit; the baggage and personnel in this caravan were much greater than in the train Richard had taken with him, and would take several days to reach the rendezvous. Anne’s spirits rose as they neared Warwick, because a harbinger had met them on the road and informed them that the King would already be in residence by the time they arrived. Another of the travellers showed his excitement by spurring his pony to the head of the column, pursued by a scolding groom, and there making it dance on its hind legs, to the amusement of all but the groom. This was the young Earl of Warwick, enthralled to be on the move after a boring month in London and approaching his titular fortress, which his uncle Richard had promised to restore to him when he was grown up. Until then he would be reared with Prince Edward and other cousins in Yorkshire, and no doubt be introduced to the discipline which up to now he had managed to avoid.
The public meeting with her husband at the castle barbican was perforce formal, but she could tell from the brightness of his eyes how glad he was to see her. They had been physically parted for only two weeks, yet it seemed much longer, and perhaps it was. For out of London Richard had shed much of the burden of sovereignty which had visibly borne on him there. Always happy in the saddle, encouraged by the warmth of reception given to him in every town on his route, he was recognisable again to the wife who had feared him estranged from her. Alone at last, in the chamber that had been her father’s, his love confirmed it.
They reached Pomfret towards the end of August, after the least disag
reeable journey that Anne had ever made. Here they were to wait until their son joined them from Middleham. To be sure, the official functions continued unabated, the stream of people flowed undiminished, as throughout their slow progress north at every stopping-place; but here the accents were right, and, with the foothills of the Pennines, lying low along the western horizon, told her that she was in Yorkshire. Her heart lifted. Day by day she sat beside Richard, settling disputes, receiving gifts and homage and petitions, and all the time beneath the restrained courtesy which they showed to everybody their thoughts sprang in half-terrified, half-joyous unison towards the moment when the messenger would announce the approach of Prince Edward.
When word came, they went out a little way on the Tadcaster road to meet him, miscalculated in their eagerness, and had to sit their horses in a high wind for a good half hour before his outriders appeared. Among the advancing caval cade there were many familiar faces; even the men-at-arms were old acquaintances from Wensleydale; but there was one face only for which two pairs of eyes were searching feverishly, and it was not there. A terrible pang of fear tore through two hearts, and they were afraid to look at each other, their hands frozen on the reins, their breathing arrested. Sir John Wrangwysh, who had escorted the procession from York, remained before the King and Queen, unnoticed, with his hat in his hand for several minutes before they turned their stricken gaze on to him. Quickly and with pity for their vulnerability he answered their unspoken question.
‘My lord the Prince has been travelling by chariot. Here he is.’ And the clumsy vehicle, gay with new coats of red and gold paint, rolled to a halt opposite the three horses. After a moment the door was opened and a slight figure descended, leaning on the proffered arm of his groom Metcalfe. He was not very steady on his feet, and kept hold of his prop as he found his balance and looked up at his parents. His soft fair hair whipped across his cheeks under the scarlet cap, but the wind brought no colour to his complexion. It was quite grey, and there were green stains beneath his eyes. With a conscious effort he drew himself erect and walked forward alone to the head of the King’s horse. There he took off his cap and knelt carefully on one knee among the stones at the roadside.
Richard moved at last, stretching out a hand which trembled slightly towards the kneeling boy. Edward clasped it and would have kissed it but he was raised and pulled almost roughly to his father’s side. Wanting to embrace him, unable to do so without dismounting, Richard was stiffly still for an instant while he blinked away the tears which would be excused by the wind; then he disengaged his hand and pressed it on the boy’s head. Recalled to duty, Edward repeated his obeisance to his mother.
Dry-eyed with dread, she yet had the strength to whisper as he rose, ‘How is it with you, Ned?’ As the first words broke the web of silence the watchers, on foot or mounted, fidgeted and remembered themselves, and began their own reunions, so that only Richard and Anne heard his answer.
‘Tired, madame, that’s all, I regret I’m not such an experienced traveller as you and my lord fa−. . . the King.’ He smiled sidelong at his father, and the smile was full of courageous pride. They could not help but smile back, at him and at each other, and the minutes of anxiety were deliberately submerged in the joy of the meeting.
It was in the evening, after supper in their private solar, that they learned why they had been kept waiting so long outside Pomfret. Edward had been sent early to bed, despite brave protests of perfect recovery that almost reached the point of defying his father’s authority. After a public day Richard and Anne were closeted with a few intimates, mostly from their Middleham days, and among them was Katherine van Soeters. Unlike her young brother John, she had not thrust herself forward to greet her father and adopted mother, but she had been none the less affectionately welcomed. And she had something to explain to them which now overcame her reticence.
Kneeling at Anne’s side she said softly, ‘I could tell how distressed you were when you first saw Lord Edward today. He was not really ill, you know.’ Anne touched Richard’s arm to draw his attention, and Katherine continued, ‘He has been much better these past few weeks, but they thought it was still too far for him to ride. Oh, he hated the idea of a chariot, but he had to obey. Maybe it was the excitement of meeting you again that brought it on ...’ She blushed a little, and they nodded to urge her on. ‘He was sick from the travelling after leaving Tadcaster, and we had to stop at a house on the road to clean him up and change his clothes.’ Such a common malady! And one from which Anne herself had suffered since childhood. Seeing their glad relief, Katherine dropped her voice even lower. ‘Please don’t let my lord know that I told you. He was so ashamed - and he would be very angry with me.’
They reassured her, and then Anne called for a cushion to be brought, so they could hear from her what had passed in Wensleydale since their departure - things which were at once too trivial and too important to be mentioned in despatches.
Among the many matters that encumbered the mind of the new King, Katherine too had her place, as Anne discovered one night on retiring. Richard remarked thoughtfully, ‘Kate has grown since April.’ She certainly had grown in some directions, and he had noticed with appreciation that the developing curves of her body would soon possess something of her mother’s voluptuousness. Marja had haunted him a little here at Pomfret, where she had lived and died, and in contemplating the copper locks of his son, the gentle femininity of his daughter, he remembered, with melancholy gratitude, what she had done for him. He must repay her, now that he had the means, although he knew better than to put it thus to Anne, whose love for the children did not embrace the mother. ‘It is time we did something about her future.’
‘Richard, she is only twelve!’
‘Yes, but I’ve seen wenches of sixteen not so mature as she is.’ He
grinned mockingly at his wife, who had never had any claim to opulence of figure. ‘And I think I’ve found her a husband.’ ‘She’s far too young! And I’m sure her ambition is to take holy orders... Who is he?’
‘Will Herbert.’
‘The Earl of Huntingdon?’ He was with them at Pomfret, a man a little younger than Anne, not conspicuous in a crowd, but a faithful supporter of the Yorkist régime since assuming offices in Wales resigned to him by Richard after Tewkesbury.
‘Yes. He needs a wife. And by the way he was looking at Kate today he would not require much urging to take her.’
‘But you wouldn’t—’
‘I wouldn’t force her. Of course not. And I haven’t broached the matter to him yet. If he is agreeable, she must be given the choice, and then the chance to know him better.’
‘Would that mean her leaving Middleham?’
‘That she must do soon. And you would be pleased to have her with you, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I have missed her. But Edward...’
‘He is surrounded by people that love and care for him, and will be at Sheriff Hutton. And he’s reaching an age when men must rule him, not women. It’s time Kate began to think of her own life. Oh, she is very pious, but don’t you think she is too fond of people to give them all up for God? She should lavish that care on her own children, instead of those of others.’ Anne allowed herself to be persuaded. They agreed that Richard would speak to Huntingdon and should he consent, Anne would break the news to Katherine. In any case, the marriage would not take place until after the girl’s thirteenth birthday next year.
Later, while Richard slept, Anne’s thoughts returned to a passing observation he had made about their son’s growing out of the need for women’s care. If this were so, what further role did she play in his life? And was it so? She had no doubt of her need for him - he and Richard were thirds of her self, as essential to her wholeness as limbs - but did he really not need her? Then she remembered the Duchess of York, who had surrendered her sons to the guardianship of the Earl of Warwick when still small boys. Yet she could hardly be said to count for nothing in their adult lives. Anne had heard tell h
ow even her fearless son King Edward cowered before her rages. And Richard had gone to stay with her while pondering on his momentous dilemma of whether to take the throne from his nephew. The Duchess possessed great strength of character, but unlike Queen Margaret with her smothering devotion to her only son, her influence over her children was surely for the good. Anne tried to imagine how Ned would come to her for moral support, for the unspoken comfort which only a woman could give, and she could not do it. She could make no picture in her mind of herself, old and stately, and Edward a man.
Beside her Richard sighed and stirred. Since leaving Middleham he had not been the quiet sleeper of their years in Yorkshire. And fear of the future once more rose through her meditations and told her it was foolish to look ahead. She was in the county that was her home, where she was accepted and perhaps even held in affection; she was with her husband and her son and their friends, and soon they would be entering York for a ceremony which would be the climax of Richard’s, and therefore of her own, life. It was more than foolish, it was insane, to conjure clouds into such a cloudless sky.
And almost cloudless was the late summer day as their great cavalcade halted outside the city to be received by the Mayor and Aldermen and other dignitaries, resplendent in scarlet and red. The formality of the occasion was tempered by the broad smiles on many a face, and the real warmth beneath the conventional words of the speeches. From a distance the resonance of bells wafted fitfully between the cheers of the people, but as the royal party passed through the black shadow of the barbican and flashed into the sunlight of Micklegate the peals from every belfry in the sixty churches of the city drowned the human noises and made the air quiver. The shouting, the bells, the narrow street packed with excited humanity - these were the very things which had beaten Anne into misery two months ago at the coronation, which she had always hated from the depths of her shy and private soul.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 31