In fact she was not long without news. Richard found time to scribble her a note, or dictate one to John Kendall, every few days. If he referred to Buckingham, it was as ‘the great rebel’ - never by name. A sizable army was rapidly assembled, and ‘with good hopes’ the King announced he was leading it to Coventry. There was no need for it to strike a blow. The foulness of the weather fought for King Richard instead. With the mobile assistance of local bands of loyalists, Buckingham’s reluctant pressed forces melted away in the chaos caused by floods as he crossed the English border from Wales. His mighty menace collapsed as quickly as it had arisen, and he himself disappeared, no doubt a desperate fugitive. Anne ordered masses to be sung in the castle chapel and the collegiate church of Middleham, but her private prayers were not only of thanksgiving. She was praying that Buckingham would not be found alive. Only too well she remembered the effect on Richard of Hastings’ treachery and execution, and he had meant less to him than Harry Stafford.
Nothing more came from him until into the second week of November, and then the courier was not a man-at-arms, but Frank Lovel. Knowing it must be serious, Anne received him alone in her solar after allowing him only the time to greet his wife and change his muddy garments. There was no need for ceremony between them.
‘Buckingham is dead,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘Beheaded. In Salisbury, on All Souls’ Day.’
Anne suppressed a shudder. ‘Tell me.’
‘He had taken refuge with a servant, and in fitting fashion the servant betrayed him for the reward. A thousand pounds or lands worth a hundred a year. He was tried by a commission under the ViceConstable and condemned as a traitor. There was no room for clemency.’
‘No.’ A silence fell. Lovel ducked his head to drink some of the broth they had brought him. Some dried mud had clotted a lock of his fair hair. ‘Did Richard see him?
‘He would not. Buckingham asked for an audience... no, I must speak truth, madame, he begged and pleaded for it. You would not have known him. They gave him some decent clothes to replace the rags he had escaped in, but all his pride was gone, broken.’ She thought of the immaculate and supercilious nobleman who had kissed her hand at Windsor.
‘Even so, he wanted to speak to the King.’
‘Yes. Although what he hoped to say the saints alone know. He resigned himself in the end and made a good enough death.’ Silence again, dragging. He finished his broth.
‘And... my husband?’
‘He sent no letter.’
‘He sent you instead.’
‘No. I offered to come. Madame, he needs you with him.’
‘Did he tell you?’
‘There was no need for him to tell me. Often since we left York he has spoken of you and Lord Edward ... the Prince. Especially lately when he has spoken at all.’
‘Is he well, Frank?’
‘In body, yes. But I think you should join him as soon as he returns to London.’ Anne looked down at the hands clenched in her lap. It was her dilemma again, and it was insoluble. She could not be happy with Richard while Edward was in Yorkshire under anybody’s care but her own; she could not be happy in Wensleydale while Richard was suffering apart from her. But in this case there was no decision to make. Lord Lovel was a high-ranking minister of the crown, and he would not have taken this long journey, at a time of crisis, had he not thought it very necessary. He knew Richard as well as any man alive, and if it was his opinion that Anne should go to her husband, then she would go. She had anyway promised to be in London for Christmas.
‘You are right,’ she said. ‘I will arrange to leave as soon as may be.’ Then she attempted to push her depression aside.
‘But I have kept you too long from your wife, Frank. She has not said a word about you - no chattering like Meg about John - but I know she has missed you the more. I will see that you and Ann have your old chamber, for as long as you stay. And some music for us tonight, I hope?’
There was no rest; a little over two months after she had returned to Middleham, she left it again. Fitzhugh would stay, of course, as steward, and the Prince’s household, but after the departure of the Queen’s entourage the castle would be less populated than at any time in Anne’s memory. She was taking Katherine with her. The girl had been pining since their pet died, spending longer than usual in the chapel with her beads, and coming out of her lassitude only for a furious argument with the chaplain about the soullessness of animals, which she fiercely denied. Anne had offered her a new kitten, but that was no consolation; Kat had been at Middleham longer than she had, he was part of the family, and no mere cat could replace him. So her foster-mother broached again the subject of the Earl of Huntingdon, who had agreed to accept the King’s natural daughter as his wife, provided she was willing. And Anne was not yet sure whether she was. When the issue was first raised in York Katherine had said little except that she would consider it. Since then, nothing. She asked her pointblank, one evening after supper. After a moment Katherine said, ‘I shall do as the King my father wishes.’
‘And what of your wishes, Kate? Your father has left the decision to you.’
‘What would he do with me if I refused?’
‘I think,’ said Anne gently, ‘he would look for another husband more to your taste. It would disappoint him, of course.’
‘He would not let me ... I had thought of entering St Clement’s Convent in York.’ It was as Anne had suspected, and it put her in a quandary. She saw herself at Katherine’s age, or a little older, and felt the echo of that yearning for peace and order, for obedience and discipline, which had been so strong in her too, and had been brutally crushed by a forced marriage. Crushed but not destroyed. Only after a second marriage to a man she loved had she realised that another motive than piety lay behind the desire to become a nun, and that was the instinct to run away and hide from responsibility. How much of that was there in this earnest retiring girl?
On an impulse she said, ‘That was my ambition, once.’ And she found herself telling Katherine what she had told no one, not even Richard. The tranquil summer in the Norman convent, her friendship with Soeur Madeleine, the night when she had learned of her impending betrothal and attempted to defy her father. She told her too, as clearly as she could remember it, what Soeur Madeleine had said: ‘Don’t be proud, and think that only you know what is right. Your mind may change. And if God needs you, He will not let you escape.’
Katherine gazed at her foster-mother, the ready tears coming to her eyes. ‘I never knew how you suffered,’ she murmured.
Thanking God that she never really would know, Anne replied, ‘But, you see, if my prayers had been answered as I wished then, I would not have married your father, nor become Ned’s mother. There are more ways than one of serving God; in the world as well as out of it.’ The girl nodded slowly, considering. ‘So, Kate, if you will come to London with me, as your father asks, we shall see what happens. If in the end you find you cannot marry, that it is against your conscience and your reason as well as your heart, I think he will not force you.’
She gained her consent, and it was both of them this time who said their farewells to Edward in the Queen’s apartments. He had recently thrown off a cold, but a nagging cough had persisted, and Anne gave way to her maternal instincts in making him promise to practise no outdoor pursuits until it had disappeared.
‘You will be moving to Sheriff Hutton as soon as spring comes, and for that you’ll need all your health.’ Katherine showed no such restraint, and wept profusely as she embraced him. Edward accepted her demonstration patiently, for he was fond of her. When she had done he took her hand and regarded her seriously.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘it would be best, I think, if you married Lord Huntingdon. He’s a good man, and my father the King trusts him. And he likes you.’ Surprised, Anne asked how he knew.
‘Because of the way he looked at her,’ he answered, as if it was a stupid question. Katherine was struck quite dumb by
the boy’s perspicacity, and to hide her suddenly scarlet cheeks she embraced him again. It had evidently not occurred to her that any man might look at her in that kind of way. Anne recalled that Richard had said much the same to her at Pomfret, and wondered if her son’s revelation would help or hinder his scheme.
There was the usual formal parting by the gatehouse: Edward and his tutor, Lord Fitzhugh and all the officers of the castle assembled in force. Diana’s whelp Arrow was sitting quietly beside his master, and to please her son Anne forced herself to stoop and pat the hound’s head. Arrow took no notice, but Edward’s reaction was unexpected. He flung his arms round his mother and held her against him in a convulsive grip. She heard the sob in his voice as he whispered close to her ear, ‘Take care of Kate, Mother, and come back soon.’ Then he released her and took his place by Master Bernall again, hanging his head as though ashamed of his loss of control. Anne mounted, and as she turned the steep corner into the road opposite the market cross she looked back: Edward was coughing, and trying not to; Master Bernall’s hand was on his shoulder. Never yet had she managed to leave Middleham without crying, and today was no exception.
3: THE AXE FALLS
She reached London only shortly after Richard, who had come in from the south. A mopping-up of the last rebels had turned into a royal progress as the people expressed their relief at the quick suppression
of further fighting. A handful of the ringleaders besides Buckingham had been executed, the rest given light punishment or pardoned. But the King was less untouched by the revolt than the capital and the country appeared to be. His face was more of a mask and his lips pressed more tightly together than before. The wall of reserve was higher, and even for Anne harder to breach. Once again she was depressed with a feeling of impotence. Despite Frank Lovel’s assurance, she doubted whether her presence or absence meant very much to her husband.
Even so, he was determined to keep a lavish Christmas. Part of the business of ruling, as he had learned from his brother and from his visit to the court of Burgundy in his youth, was a generous display of pomp and opulence. There were many guests to be received and entertained, precedence and etiquette to be observed, no room for the wild and slightly silly festivities that had characterised Yuletide in Yorkshire. But among the watching and surely critical new court there were old and trusted friends. Their very familiarity made Edward’s absence the more noticeable, at this time when the family had so often been together. Richard was missing his son badly, for he continuously asked questions about him when alone with Anne. He was one of the few topics on which they still talked with any freedom.
Another mutual interest showed promising development over the twelve days of Christmas. Anne had told her husband of Katherine’s reluctance to leave Middleham, and he had shown her special kindness. He had also made sure that William Huntingdon was often of the same company, and in this he had the active connivance of the Earl himself. It was true, as the Prince of Wales had remarked so acutely, that he was smitten with the girl. Virtually twice her age and a widower, his eyes followed her with schoolboy enthusiasm, and she was no longer in ignorance of it. A stranger to coquetry, she would not meet his eyes and became tongue-tied when he spoke to her. On the other hand, among the daunting spaces and luxuries of Westminster Palace, and the young courtiers left over from King Edward’s time who eyed her bosom under its high neckline and speculated only just out of hearing on who her mother had been, he had at least the advantage of being an acquaintance. So she allowed him to escort her, to sit by her at mealtimes and entertainments and to dance with her, but gave him no further encouragement.
In fact she was suffering an acute attack of homesickness, although she kept her secret so well that even Anne did not find out until the evening of Childermas, when Katherine was helping to dress her and for once could not restrain her tears. Since she was herself particularly reminded of her son on this feast it did not take long to divine the girl’s malaise. But when she asked to be excused from the night’s banquet and dancing, Anne hardened her heart and told her she must attend. Moping in a darkened room would not help her, while a few goblets of wine probably would.
The wine that evening was especially good, a canary from King Edward’s cellars that his widow had not succeeded in rifling. Anne had had a quiet word with Lord Huntingdon before the meal began, but it was not until the trestles were removed and the dancing commenced that she saw how successful he had been. The King and Queen led the first dance and afterwards there was much socialising to be done. The welfare of her foster-daughter had slipped from Anne’s mind until Richard touched her arm and nodded towards the couples who were treading the intricate figures of a basse dance. Katherine was partnered by Huntingdon. Her dark hair flowed straight and shining down her back under a red cap. Her gown was also of crimson velvet, trimmed with white fur round the deep V of the neck, over a white satin kirtle. It was a present from her father which she had not worn before.
Richard had chosen the colour, and to Anne’s demur that perhaps she was too young for it he had said decisively, ‘I think not.’ Now she saw that he was right. The Katherine who was gazing boldly into her partner’s eyes with a slight smile on her parted lips, whose hand slid into his clasp with evident delight in the contact, was no child. She had always danced well, when obliged to do so, but never with this conscious pride in her own movements. Anne could hardly credit her own eyes, but Richard was smiling nostalgically. Katherine had inherited her mother’s sensual nature, and tonight it had awakened. He remembered the quick fire that had flashed between him and Marja on their first meeting in Flanders, and now he saw the same mysterious alchemy at work between their daughter and his friend. Watching his wife’s puzzled expression, he thought tenderly that she had been as mistaken about Katherine’s vocation for chastity as about her own.
It was the canary which had accomplished the transformation. Still a little drunk, Katherine claimed the task of brushing the Queen’s hair before bed so she could talk to her. Her reflection in the real glass mirror showed pink cheeks and wine-bright eyes.
‘It was so strange, madame,’ she whispered feverishly, and Anne tried not to flinch as her trembling hands wielded the brush with less than her usual care. ‘I didn’t mind his looking at me... I liked it. And I wanted him to... to touch me.’ The brush was still and her gaze met Anne’s in the looking-glass, uncertain and yet exhilarated. ‘Should I be ashamed? I don’t feel wicked. But perhaps I should confess it tomorrow. Do you think I should?’ Anne turned and put her hands on the young shoulders, quivering under the first experience of eroticism.
‘Did Lord Huntingdon share these feelings?’ ‘Oh, yes. It was ... both of us,’ Katherine said lamely. ‘He kissed my cheek when he said goodnight.’
‘In that case, my dear, go and sleep, if you can. In the morning, if you still don’t believe you are wicked, then there will be no need for confession.’
‘Truly, madame?’
‘Truly, Kate. After all, Lord Huntingdon has asked to marry you. There can be nothing sinful in wishing to be his wife.’ Katherine said no more, completed her task none so ill, and went to bed. Waiting for Richard to come to her, Anne rejoiced that at least his daughter would not enter into marriage blindfold, as she herself had done.
With morning and sobriety Katherine became shy again, shyer than before for a while, until she found that her suitor did not think any the less of her for her display of the night of Childermas, which was rather hazy in her own mind. But she did not forget what she had learned about herself, and she wore her crimson gown several more times, until Twelfth Night put an end to the festivities. And the Earl of Huntingdon had not yet played his trump card, which he did not even realise he held. It was quite by accident, in one of the conversations which were beginning to flower between them, that he mentioned his daughter. Katherine’s eyes kindled. She knew that his first wife Mary had been Elizabeth Woodville’s sister, and that she had died several years since, but the information h
ad not come from Huntingdon, and he had certainly not talked of any children.
‘You have a daughter?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Yes. Elizabeth.’ The Earl spoke defensively; it occurred to him that there might be jealousy, with so few years between the two girls.
‘How old is she?’
‘I think - just past her ninth birthday.’
‘And she has no mother.’
‘No. My wife died when Bess was still small.’ He could talk of Mary Woodville without emotion, since she had never aroused very much. It was partly for that reason that he had not brought her into his exchanges with Katherine; the other reason was delicacy. And the same delicacy could not yet understand her interest in his only child, whom he scarcely ever saw.
‘Just like my mother,’ breathed Katherine.
They were interrupted then, but Katherine lost little time in returning to the subject when they were next together. ‘Where is your daughter now?’ she asked without preamble.
‘In Wales, living on one of my manors.’
‘Will she be coming to London soon?’
‘There are no plans for it,’ Huntingdon said vaguely. Encouraged as he was to have her questioning him with such avidity, he still did not catch her drift.
‘How she must miss you!’ That the Earl doubted; he was awkward in the company of little girls, until of course they became as nubile as the one sitting beside him at dinner, and he and Elizabeth had never found much to say to each other on his rare visits. Katherine cut up a piece of roast beef thoughtfully, and then said with diffidence, ‘Would you perhaps be able to arrange for her to come here? Just for a little time? I am sure she would be pleased to see you again. And ... I should like to meet her.’ It was the first request she had ever made of him, and he was touched. He was beginning to realise that her concern for his child was that of one motherless daughter for another.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 33