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

by Lesley Nickell

  There were other faces she could not read during the next month, even Katherine’s, briefly, when she arrived halfway through Advent from her husband’s estates in Monmouthshire. Anne suspected from time to time that there were grave tidings of some kind which they were keeping from her, but no one enlightened her, and she could not cope with much reasoned speculation. Besides, there was one face at court which she could read only too well, and that presented a more immediate problem than other nebulous imaginings.

  Her niece Elizabeth was falling in love with her husband. The Queen of England had not lost Lady Anne Neville’s childhood gift, if gift it was, of sensing the truth of things before they were put into words. At first, from Elizabeth’s behaviour when Richard was present, it seemed that she disliked him, resentful of the man who had usurped the throne from her brother and taken away her own high status. But beneath the stiffness, the reluctance to speak, Anne began to see an opposite explanation. The eyes that dropped when they encountered his, yet sought him at all other times; the avoidance of his touch, and the blush when he did take her hand or kiss her with an uncle’s solicitude. For a time she angled for his company, and then sat mute when she obtained it, but with Christmas a few days off she started to seek excuses to keep away from any informal meetings with him. Elizabeth was eighteen, a young woman of sharp intelligence and overripe for marriage. It was perhaps inevitable that her father’s daughter should fall in love; it was more than unfortunate that she should fall where she had, and Elizabeth knew it. The King himself had no inkling of her plight, and continued to offer small kindnesses to her and her sisters quite indiscriminately. And Anne, who for some reason had few official duties lately and therefore much leisure, watched and wondered what to do.

  The plainest solution was a husband. Had King Edward’s diplomatic schemes gone aright, Elizabeth would have been Queen of France. But Louis XI, who long ago had made the mighty Earl of Warwick dance to his tune and give his daughter into the hands of Edward of Lancaster, had played fast and loose also with his Yorkist alliance. Even from his grave, whither within half a year he had followed Edward IV, he meddled with the happiness of his English cousins. There had been no time to betroth Elizabeth anew when she was a royal princess; as a bastard living on the King’s charity she was a poor match. Richard had undertaken to arrange marriages for all the sisters, yet he seemed in no hurry to do so, ignoring even the oath which Henry Tydder had sworn a year ago to gain support in England, to take Elizabeth to wife as soon as he was able. Once Anne brought herself to ask, as idly as possible, whether any plans were afoot for their niece. Richard was noncommittal, and when she mentioned the name of Tydder he said he was not going to be browbeaten into haste by the insolence of a rebel. Why the impatience, Richard asked; was the girl not content and well cared for at Westminster? Marvelling at his blindness, it was Anne’s turn to be noncommittal.

  Christmas came with nothing resolved. For all the money and planning poured into it, to make the feast more magnificent than the last, there was a pall of indefinable melancholy over all the festivities. Two latecomers did what they could to leaven the heaviness: John of Lincoln and John of Pomfret, as the King’s son was often called, arrived in the dusk of Christmas Day. Richard’s nephew, the Earl of Lincoln, was now his heir presumptive, appointed back in the summer, which was perhaps a good enough reason for him to be summoned from Sheriff Hutton to pass a week at court. His younger namesake would soon be entering his teens, and Richard had an office in mind for him also, more humble certainly, and nominal too at first, but enough to give him a standing as honourable as his sister had attained in matrimony. Captain of Calais he was to be, the post that the Earl of Warwick had filled with such panache in the Queen’s infancy. John’s qualities as a sailor were as yet unproven, but as Anne said to her husband on approving the choice, he already had the dash and the daring. Yet even his kindling red hair and sturdy figure seemed a little subdued that winter at Westminster. Maybe it was the effect of his first exposure to the full rigours of court procedure, on so much vaster a scale than the domestic regimes he had known.

  And indeed for the eye alone there was a rich harvest to be reaped around the King’s high table as he kept the feast. The King and Queen were in new robes, sewn with pearls, trimmed with soft lambs' fleece, but any impartial observer would have awarded the palm not to them but to the Lady Elizabeth and her sisters. Even in the absence of its mistress, the Evershed workshop had completed its commission magnificently. Over the white velvet kirtle, Elizabeth’s cloth-of-gold sleeves and gown matched exactly the gilt hair which lay like silk over her shoulders. Cecily’s corn-yellow beauty was complemented by rich russet. Nan and Cat were in saffron and murrey, and small Bridget’s auburn curls bobbed over a green garment which she kept stroking with reverent hands. The reinstatement of Edward’s daughters, visually at least, was complete, and if the eldest of them looked more often at her platter than at her neighbours, the others could not help preening themselves. Not far below them, the Countess of Huntingdon was wearing again the crimson gown which had helped to capture a husband the previous Christmas, although now her hair was bound. She too seemed thrown into shadow this year by her cousins’ fine feathers. Anne, too far away to talk to her, thought that much as she loved her family in London, Katherine must have left part of her heart with Will and her stepdaughter in Monmouthshire.

  Trying to catch her eye, Anne was assailed by a fit of the coughing which had troubled her for some time and particularly when it was foggy. As she emerged from it she found she had succeeded in attracting not only Kate’s attention, but also Richard’s and that of almost every other person at the top table. She carried out her intention and smiled at Kate; the girl returned only a travesty of a smile and looked away. Richard was holding out her wine goblet and telling her to drink; he too would not meet her eyes. Conversation had died so that each note played by the consort of viols in the gallery fell clearly into the vacuum. Uneasily Anne glanced round the brilliant assembly, seeing the way in which they bent too eagerly to their platters or drank too deeply from their cups. Above their heads intrusive drifts of fog blurred the painted hammer-beams of the roof, at odds with the brightness below. Why was she also condemned to obscurity, cut off from some conspiracy which everyone shared but she?

  So often in her life she had felt isolated, never more so than on these formal occasions when she should have been a focal point of the great gathering. A child at Cawood, a young woman on her first wedding day, a queen at her coronation, she was alone, forsaken by God and man. In the midst of her solitude, there was a hand on her arm.

  ‘Do you wish to retire, dear heart?’ said Richard’s voice. This time his gaze did meet hers, full of a compassion which made her bless him for sensing her mood. Full too of a pain he could not hide.

  ‘What is wrong, Richard?’ she whispered to him. ‘What is it that you all know and keep from me?’ He would have replied but she shook her head emphatically. ‘Don’t deny it. Only a block could have failed to notice.’ A page moved between them to remove her untouched meat and offer on his knee a dish of salted almonds.

  She refused them with a gesture and as he passed on Richard muttered, ‘If only you would eat -’

  Scenting an evasion, she said curtly, ‘You know I have no appetite for these banquets,’ and returned to the point. ‘I will ask Kate. She wouldn’t lie to me.’

  ‘Would I?’ The pain had crept into his voice. She knew she was hurting him, and what was more in public, but she did not stop.

  ‘Perhaps you would, in this case. But I have as much right to the truth as anyone, Richard. You must share it with me.’ The King rubbed nervous fingers across his forehead, surreptitiously wiping away beads of perspiration.

  ‘You may be right. But don’t mention it to Kate, I beg you.’

  ‘Then you will tell me?’

  ‘I’ll think on it.’

  ‘Swear that you’ll tell me.’

  Their exchange was drawing atte
ntion, even among those who most feigned to be otherwise engaged. Even so, Richard was slow to give the promise she demanded. Absently he ate several almonds and washed them down with burgundy before saying with a leaden tongue, ‘Very well.’ And as he turned to repair his discourtesy to his other neighbour, he added quietly as if to himself, ‘You will have to know eventually.’

  It was the late morning of Childermas, and the Queen’s ladies were robing her for yet another dinner. She had overslept, and since nobody had seen fit to wake her, to her shame she had missed the Mass of the Holy Innocents, which was of particular significance this year with her own innocent to remember. On rising she promised herself an hour of prayer in penance, sometime today. They were having trouble with the girdle of her gown, which had been made last winter and seemed to hang far too loosely now. Anne supposed she had lost a considerable amount of weight lately, and stood patiently while they pleated and pinned. Before they were through the Countess of Huntingdon was announced, and the women moved aside as Anne clasped Katherine’s hands and raised her.

  ‘Madame, may I speak with you?’ At her tone, and at her expression, the others exchanged glances and began to leave the room. Margaret went hastily, but not before her mistress had seen the tears starting.

  ‘What is it, Kate? The King - he is –‘ She had not seen Richard last night; indeed she recalled nothing after dark yesterday except being very hot.

  ‘In good health, madame.’

  ‘Then why are you so pale? You must be ill...’ Thrusting aside the forebodings which rose so rapidly, Anne continued quickly, ‘or are you with child? The early months are wretched, but they will pass.’

  Katherine still held her hands, and more and more she was bearing the Queen’s weight. ‘You must sit down.’

  The nearest seat was the stool before the looking-glass, where she would soon have sat to have her hair dressed. She sank down, saying breathlessly, ‘Yes, I sometimes feel a little faint early in the morning. But it’s not early, is it? It’s disgracefully late, and I’ve been such a sluga-bed. On the first sunny day for weeks, too.’

  Startled, Katherine looked up and saw that it was true. Although at its midwinter nadir and barely above the window sill, the sun was valiantly picking out tiny rainbows in the border of the Venetian looking-glass. But the light reflected into the Queen’s face was merciless. She averted her own, and silence pressed down on them both. Anne said suddenly, ‘Will you brush my hair, Kate? No one has a touch like yours; I’ve missed it.’

  Still mute, Katherine took up the silver brush and began to tease out the elf-locks of a restless night. The other saw mirrored behind her the downcast eyes and teeth that caught nervously at her lip, and recalled the sweet eagerness of that same face in the same glass a year before. Quite calmly, she said, ‘What have you to tell me, my dear? I know it has nothing to do with a baby.’ At that moment a paroxysm of coughing shook her. Katherine flung an arm helplessly round her shoulders until it was over, and Anne could gasp, ‘Go on brushing ... Perhaps it will go now the fog has cleared. It’s easier than it was.’

  ‘No, madame - it’s worse. That is what I have to tell you.’ Expressionlessly the girl began to speak at last. ‘Father would have told you last night, but you were in a fever, and then you slept and he wouldn’t wake you. The physicians have said that we cannot hope for recovery. You are in a consumption. If you take great care, you may live to the summer.’ The brush swept on through the lustreless hair. Anne could see now the hollowed cheeks and the wasted breasts beneath the rich brocade.

  ‘And if I do not ... take care?’

  ‘Until spring, perhaps.’

  ‘And everybody knows.’

  ‘All but you, madame.’

  With a dry laugh Anne said, ‘It was the same when I was carrying Ned. I was the last to find out. Strange, when I can read others so quickly.’ There was a strangled sob and then Katherine was on her knees, her head in her foster-mother’s lap, weeping uncontrollably. Anne soothed her wordlessly, stroking her hair and holding her gently, until she lay quiet.

  ‘What a weakling I am,’ the girl said at length, muffled by the folds of the Queen’s gown. ‘You should not be comforting me.’

  ‘No, it must have taken courage to accept this errand. How was it that your father let you come?’

  Katherine raised her head and said, almost defiantly, ‘He doesn’t know. I came without his permission. This morning at mass he looked so weary, and afterwards Father Doget was speaking to him. I’m sure he was trying to persuade my lord to give him the task. But my lord kept shaking his head. And I thought of how it must have been ... last night ... and that perhaps I could spare him a little. Oh, Mother, he’s been in agony between the cruelty of keeping it from you, and the finality of telling you.’

  ‘As if to leave it unsaid might make it untrue,’ Anne murmured slowly. She was thinking of her husband lying through the night at her oblivious side, sleepless and heavy with that unshed burden. ‘I expect he’ll be angry with you, Kate. He doesn’t take kindly to a sharing of his responsibilities. But I thank you, and I’ll tell him so. Now I shall have time to prepare.’

  ‘But how shall we do without you?’ Katherine’s cry was again close to tears.

  ‘You will, my dear. You’ll have to. And for you there’s Will, and soon children of your own.’

  ‘Not for Father. He has nothing but you.’

  She had no easy answer to that. Instead she said, ‘Will you leave me now, Kate? And would you keep my women from me for a few minutes. I believe there is time before dinner.’ Incapable of another word, Katherine went into her arms, and after a quick violent embrace she departed.

  Alone, Anne rose, and as she did so a city clock outside began to strike the hour of ten. She stood watching the motes in the shaft of sunlight, listening to the chiming of the bell, and wondered why she was so calm when with each stroke her time was trickling away. But time had done that all her life. Her rosary hung on its hook above her prie-dieu. Taking it down she crossed herself and knelt. What she possessed at this moment, as perhaps never before, was the quiet of certainty.

  The presence of another person in the room made itself known slowly, for she had travelled far in a short while. One of her ladies-inwaiting, she supposed, with her eyes still closed, proffering misplaced sympathy. But she sensed urgency and reluctantly returned to mundane duty. It was Elizabeth who waited behind her, and dropped into a deep courtesy as the Queen turned to her.

  ‘Your grace, forgive me for breaking in on your devotions, but there was no other time when I could find you alone. I must speak with you.’ She was too wrapped in her own troubles to see the ironic twist in her aunt’s smile as she compared this demand for audience with that she had granted half an hour before.

  ‘If there is anything I can do ...’ Anne replaced the rosary and went to her armchair; Elizabeth followed and again fell to her knees.

  ‘First of all you must forgive me.’

  ‘Oh, my prayers can wait,’ said Anne mildly.

  ‘No, for a much greater sin than that.’

  ‘Should you not go to your confessor, niece?’ From her new detachment she could not help being faintly amused by the young woman’s intensity.

  ‘I’ve been to him; but I haven’t the strength of will to follow his advice. That’s why I have come to you.’ The problem of Elizabeth belonged to another age in another world, but its reality was returning to Anne little by little. More than ever, knowing what she now knew, it was imperative to face and solve her niece’s difficulty. She bade her continue.

  ‘Above all I wish to avoid causing pain to you and... and his grace the King. You have shown me so much kindness and I am a wretched ingrate to repay you like this. Yet I can’t help myself. I must go away as far as possible - out of harm’s way. Harm to my soul and to your peace.’

  ‘Why, Elizabeth?’

  It must come out, and Elizabeth hardly blenched before saving simply. ‘I love him.’

  ‘
I know.’

  ‘How can you? I’ve been so careful, tried so hard to hide it.’

  ‘Yes, but I love him too. It wasn’t difficult for me to guess.’

  ‘But he ...’ There was a sudden note of wild alarm. ‘He doesn’t suspect?’

  ‘No,’ Anne reassured her gently, ‘I’m certain of that.’

  After a moment Elizabeth said shyly, ‘And you don’t despise me?’

  ‘It’s no fault of yours. One cannot help loving. It’s how one acts upon it that makes one base or praiseworthy. Once, when I was younger than you, I almost threw away my love because I lacked the courage to confess it openly. I always wanted to run away and it was wrong of me. But I believe in your case you are right. It has been very hard for you these past few weeks and you’ve endured them with honour. I shall speak to the King again.’

  ‘Then you already have?’ Elizabeth’s fair complexion flushed, picturing rather belatedly how her control of her emotions had been so transparent to her aunt.

  ‘Yes, about your marriage ... Do be comfortable, niece. Here, sit on this stool. My ladies will be back soon and we don’t want them to find you as a petitioner at my feet.’

  ‘My marriage?’ asked Elizabeth guardedly.

  ‘The King is pledged to find you a husband - you and all your sisters. Are you content?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. I’d willingly submit to his choice, because I know he would choose wisely. The sooner the better ... so I can legitimately stay away from court ... and so that I am safe from Henry Tydder,’ she added in a bitter undertone. Anne had often speculated on Elizabeth’s reactions to Tydder’s oath.

  ‘He seems to be very eager to marry you,’ she commented.

  ‘Of course he is. Even a bastard daughter of King Edward would be a step up for him. He’s an adventurer and a cheat.’ The flush had turned to anger.

  ‘A cheat?’

  ‘Yes, he swore to my mother last autumn that my brothers were dead, to gain her support. It was a foul lie.’