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

by Lesley Nickell

  ‘Ned loved him and I was unkind to him. I threatened to whip him, and I meant it. Yet the dog was with him when he died and I was a hundred miles away. And even now he won’t leave him. What a wretched mother I am when a hound can show more devotion!’ Again Richard had to suppress his own emotions to summon up rational argument: dogs were simple creatures whose lives followed simple rules; it was his nature to stay with the master he had learned to obey.

  ‘You must not take the behaviour of a brute as a reproach to you. As well blame a falcon for killing pigeons.’

  ‘It’s not that. You don’t understand.’

  He did not. The hound was a reproach to Anne in a way he could not know. But Katherine was still within earshot and she knew. Slipping to her knees beside her foster-mother she said quietly, ‘Ned bore no grudge, madame. Don’t you remember how pleased he was when you made friends with Arrow?’ She did remember suddenly how by the gatehouse last autumn she had overcome her repugnance for dogs and patted Arrow on the head; and how Edward had thanked her for it. Her conscience would never quite clear her of the severity she had used to him in a moment of anger, or of leaving him to die, but Katherine had said the right words. The wound still bled, but a grain of poison had been drawn from it. She wept.

  Later, her thought returned to Arrow’s vigil. ‘What will happen to the hound, Richard? He could pine away. I’ve heard of such things.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said Richard, who had already resolved on it. ‘I hope he’ll run with his dam. It’s not so long since he was weaned, and Diana should remember him.’ Anne thanked him, feeling that some reparation had been made for her dislike of Ned’s dog.

  It was from this occurrence that Richard realised he would have to bury his son alone. He had inflicted enough on Anne in bringing her to this place of vanished happiness; he would have to be hardy to take the last step without her. It was not a very long journey. To go to London was out of the question. Richard had neither the time nor the inclination for a state funeral in Westminster Abbey. Besides, the hot weather had made interment necessary. York Minster seemed the most appropriate spot, but he had hesitated over it in the considerations he had shared with no one. The generous sympathy of his people of York he had received once. He did not think he could stand it again, with the added ritual which was inevitable, and an awful reversal of that ceremony half a year ago. To his council he announced shortly, and without explanation, that the Prince of Wales would be interred in the parish church of Sheriff Hutton. They looked at each other in silence, but offered no comment. However desirable for propaganda reasons a public show of pomp and grief, the councillors respected their King’s wish for privacy. Some may also have understood why he had chosen Sheriff Hutton, where the Prince was to have grown to manhood and responsibility, for the boy’s final rest. Anne might have wanted him to stay at Middleham, in the collegiate church they had founded together, but she too accepted his decision without a word.

  After her outburst over the dog she had lapsed into silence again, performing her duties with the remoteness of a sleepwalker. But she performed them, although Richard and her attendants watched her closely, aware of how thin were her defences. The time for the departure of the cortege arrived, and it was suggested to her delicately that she should keep her chamber that day. She shook her head, and was in her place by the gatehouse at the appointed hour.

  When the small coffin was borne down the steps of the keep, by Metcalfe and Peacocke, faithfully attending the Prince as they had done in life, the only two people apparently unmoved were the dead boy’s parents. The King followed slowly, in deep black riding clothes, and stood by while the coffin was secured on its open chariot. The horses drawing it tossed their heads uneasily, scenting decay, as he crossed to the Queen. He took her hand, kissed her cheek, and said for her alone, ‘Pray for us.’

  The cavalcade was mounted and moving from the bailey to the street over the drawbridge; inside, the royal household, outside, the population of Middleham, and most it seemed were audibly weeping. Lifting over the eastern curtain the sun shone in a cloudless sky, as it had done so often these past few weeks. Beyond the walls the busy birds of late spring were singing as the clatter and rumble faded. It was traditional to climb to the battlements for a final farewell, and they climbed. If any memories of past farewells were haunting Anne, she did not show it. The sad procession was winding away through the trees, towards Masham and the Vale of York. One royal coat of arms only fluttered over them. Perhaps she did not see any of it. What was real to her was the touch of Richard’s lips upon her cheek, and she was already carrying out his injunction, praying as she knew he meant for the two that had gone and for herself who remained: peace for the dead and endurance for the living.

  4: SPRING

  She had spent several weeks making friends with her five nieces. By inviting them to her apartments, talking to them, giving them small thoughtful presents, she made every effort to gain their

  confidence. With the four younger girls it was easy. Cecily, the most beautiful, was an open and friendly soul, as ready to laugh at the admiration of young lords and pages as to flirt with the zest of a nubile fifteen-year-old. Her junior by nearly seven years, Nan was quiet and biddable, and the two little ones, Cat and Bridget, were both adorable. All possessed the sweet nature which Anne had come to recognise in their father King Edward.

  Elizabeth presented more problems. For one thing, she was already a woman; for another she did not so readily show her feelings. Since she displayed the tall smooth blondeness of her mother, Anne feared at first that she had taken after her in other respects as well. But what appeared coldness and haughtiness, she was learning, hid the uncertainty which Kate had read at once, back in the spring. More than her sisters, Elizabeth had been dominated by the ex-queen’s ambition; removed from her influence she found it difficult to stand on her own feet. Sympathising, her aunt handled her gently. She dreaded the prospect of Elizabeth as her enemy, but more than the dread she wanted her as a friend. It was something she could do for Richard while he was away from London, and it might help to fill the gap left by Kate’s marriage in the summer. So on many evenings, whenever she was not too tired, the tapestries were drawn over the windows against the early-fading light, and the five girls were summoned to share the Queen’s privacy. Anne was often tired, these days. Since returning to Westminster in early autumn it had been an effort to give her full attention to all the audiences and receptions expected of her. The journey of course had been fatiguing, as always. The rest she set down to the debilitating atmosphere of London, and the time of year. She was determined, however, to do her best for her nieces.

  At Soulmas, Nan celebrated her ninth birthday. On her own initiative and from her own purse Anne hired a troupe of tumblers and jugglers for the occasion. It was the kind of entertainment she had enjoyed herself at the same age. After the performers had gathered up their brightly coloured clubs and hoops and balls and gone, she was rewarded. On rising from a well-trained thank-you courtesy, four-yearold Bridget flung her warm fat arms round her aunt’s knees. Following the child’s impulse, Anne picked her up and hugged her close. Giddy with the sudden emotion, she just had time to set Bridget on her feet before sitting down rather abruptly in her chair. And she was further surprised when the tall figure of Elizabeth stooped before her, to say that she hoped her grace’s kindness had not indisposed her. The long, rather severe lines of her face softened with real concern. Anne smiled a little tremulously and shook her head. The shouts of the entertainers, the cries and applause of the entertained had, it was true, been rather wearing, but they had been worthwhile. She had concrete proof of a small foothold in the affections of at least two of Edward’s daughters.

  On a quieter afternoon a few days later, the girls were again the Queen’s guests. She had discovered that Elizabeth used to play chess with her father and had challenged her to a game. It was soon clear that her niece was a quick and skilful opponent, but Richard, a pupil of the sam
e teacher, had taught Anne to play seriously and she played on, losing her pieces, as well as she was able. There was little to disturb their concentration: Cecily embroidered and watched the moves goodhumouredly; Nan’s head was bent with Margaret Wrangwysh’s over the illustrations in the Queen’s own book of hours. The only sounds were the low voices of Cat and Bridget, playing mothers with a poppet, and the dry shifting of charred logs in the fireplace. But Elizabeth kept her advantage and Anne’s queen was threatened. Trying to visualise a series of alternative moves in her head, Anne found the atmosphere soporific instead of stimulating. Her eyes would keep closing, and the logical sequences would keep drifting into chaos.

  It was some time before she realised that the lulling small sounds had changed, and she raised her head to encounter her ladies and nieces on their knees, and before her was her husband. There was something in his face that dispersed her drowsiness instantly, the end of an emotion which he was endeavouring to hide, and which suddenly frightened her. She would have risen to go to him but he stepped quickly forward, his boots making no sound on the fur rug, and pressed her back into her chair with his hands on her shoulders, kissing her.

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you,’ he said rapidly, as if merely for something to say. ‘I should have waited until the game - the games -’ his smile included the two children and their poppet - ‘were over. Please be easy, all of you.’ He replaced Elizabeth on her stool and sat between the two players.

  The rest of the company complied with his request but Anne said, trying to sound natural, ‘I’m afraid our niece is too good for me. See what desperate straits I’m in.’ Richard enquired whose move it was and studied the board.

  ‘Not entirely,’ he said. ‘If you move your remaining knight there ...’ Anne did so, and her opponent immediately followed, taking an unconsidered step not at all like her previous game. Glancing at her, Anne saw an unexpected flush in her pale cheeks. It was unlike her to show embarrassment. But the match had evidently lost its interest for both of them, and they muddled through to a victory for Elizabeth without any expertise. For her part, Anne’s initial alarm was swallowed up in the joy of seeing her husband again after several months apart; for nothing could be very ill provided that he was well, and here with her. And another feeling, sharper and more urgent, increased with every moment he sat beside her and was polite to his eldest niece. Tonight he would make love to her. She shifted in her chair as the intensity of her anticipation caught her unawares. Surely he must sense it too. But he went on explaining to Elizabeth how she could have mated her opponent in four moves less.

  Going to his wife’s chamber late that night after a customary session with his secretary, Richard trod softly to avoid waking her. Almost the last thing he expected was to find her out of bed and flinging herself into his arms before he had safely set the candle down.

  ‘Gently, gently! Or you will have us alight.’ Already as he gathered her into his embrace she was scrabbling at the girdle of his bedgown.

  ‘Oh, Richard, I’ve missed you so! And I thought that wretched John Kendall would be writing all night. Do come to bed.’

  His body was eager enough to respond to her haste as her hands slid inside his robe, but there was something strange about it which gave him pause. Never before had he known her to take so much of an initiative. Although she could be as passionate as he, she had always followed his lead, and to caress him as she was doing now she generally needed hours of intimacy. Could she have been drinking too much wine while waiting for him? After her appearance this afternoon he could hardly believe in any other explanation. He drew back, and said a little breathlessly, ‘Would you take me by force, love?’

  And for a moment she remembered, and said, ‘Then there is something wrong. The Tydder has invaded,’ and her avid hands were still.

  Cursing himself Richard answered, ‘No, not a sign of him. Nothing is wrong. But as you say, we must go to bed. It’s scarcely the time of year for nakedness.’ There was no wine on her breath as he kissed her and drew the fur coverlet over them, but his misgivings dissolved in the heat of their renewed contact. He caught her ardour, and their coupling was as fierce as any in the twelve years of their marriage. But when his breathing had returned to normal, and he lay in a bemused and blissful indolence, drifting into sleep, he became conscious slowly that under his arm her breasts still rose and fell rapidly, and her heartbeat pounded against him. She was drenched with sweat. Dragging himself back into wakefulness he listened for a while with growing anxiety, and then whispered, ‘Is all well with you, dear love?’ The voice that came to him out of the darkness was faint, but vibrant with happiness.

  ‘Perfectly, beautifully well.’ There was nothing he could say after that, and a few minutes later he heard her giggle. ‘Was I very wanton, Richard? Did I shock you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said unconvincingly.

  The dreams came back, you see.’

  ‘Dreams?’ By now he was a very puzzled man.

  ‘Yes. You remember, before I married you. And after until that time at Aysgarth. Dreams about … about lovemaking. Only I didn’t know it was you then. It’s strange, isn’t it? We’ve been separated for longer than this, but they’ve only returned recently.’ Her heart was steadier now, and Richard was beginning to feel rather foolish. If that was indeed all ... His brother Edward had twitted him several times with prudishness, and who was he to deny Anne her pleasure? She had little enough, God knew, in her life these days. So did he, for that matter. Desire stirred him again, but when he touched her he found she was suddenly and deeply asleep.

  They met circumspectly enough the next day, when the Queen was called into conference with those of Richard’s council left in charge of the administration in London, and she slept the night through. The craving came and went. Sometimes she could barely keep her eyes open until her ladies were out of the bedchamber; at others she awoke from torrid dreams gasping for satisfaction, or restrained herself with difficulty during daily hours of waiting until bedtime. Burying his misgivings, Richard gave what she demanded and took what she offered.

  It was possible in such moments to forget that two traitors were on trial for sedition, that the staunch old Lancastrian Earl of Oxford had escaped from custody and joined the Tydder; to forget the poisonous odour of invasion which crept beneath everything. Anne was no longer kept in ignorance of her husband’s difficulties and fears. He had learned the lesson of Nottingham well, and took her into his confidence at all times; she was free to attend privy council meetings. At one of these he thanked her officially for her care of the Lady Elizabeth and her sisters, and encouraged by this she ventured in private to ask a favour on their behalf.

  ‘Could we not provide them with new gowns, Richard? Whatever their mother did with the treasure she stole from King Edward, she didn’t use it to clothe her daughters. All they possess are out of fashion.’ Richard thought that the privy purse might stretch to five Christmas gifts. They were already in Advent, somewhat to Anne’s surprise, for time slipped by her with unusual speed nowadays. She suggested employing Janet Evershed, who had among other services supplied garments and embroidery for their coronation.

  ‘You will have to use her journeyman,’ Richard answered shortly. ‘Mistress Evershed is out of the country.’

  ‘Oh? Maybe she will return before Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  His tone was oddly dismissive. In a silence Anne looked at him, before saying quietly, ‘Then I shall send for her journeyman. If she has trained him he will be more than competent.’

  In the event she did not interview Master Kit Cely herself, since that day she was confined to her bed. But the gowns were ordered and the work begun. Richard told her so later, bringing a bowl of frumenty to her chamber with his own hands. She refused it.

  ‘But you must eat, Anne. I hear you have taken nothing today.’

  ‘Nor last night, neither,’ Margaret, who was sitting nearby, interposed severely.
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br />   ‘I’m not hungry,’ her mistress insisted. ‘I’ve been so idle, what need have I for sustenance?’

  ‘It is because you eat so little that you lack strength,’ said Margaret, who was a plain speaker. ‘You will never be well, madame, if you starve yourself.’

  ‘I’m not ill, truly. Just tired.’ Her friend and her husband exchanged glances, in which the King was given permission to exert his authority. Still protesting, the Queen ate a little of the mess of wheat and milk.

  With a stern eye on her eating, Richard said, ‘Now you shall have the good news I brought.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Kate will be with us for Yule.’

  Anne brightened and took another spoonful. ‘Oh, that is good news indeed. Does Will come too?’

  ‘No, he has duties elsewhere. But there are certain errands in London which he has asked Kate to run for him.’ And he exchanged another glance with Margaret Wrangwysh, which Anne could not read, and that raised a distant unease, although she was not able to summon the energy to analyse it. Richard’s expressions were usually so transparent to her.