CHAPTER 9
In the morning Anne finally spoke alone with her father. They rode to the Cathedral of Angiers, ignoring the curious stares of the people setting up their shops, the redolence of onions, and the mounds of yesterday’s decay and filth being haphazardly pushed into piles. They gawked as Warwick passed by. They were accustomed to their shabby King Louis who dressed like a tradesman with lead medals pinned in his cap. The Earl of Warwick wore a satin doublet accenting his wide shoulders. Above dyed leather boots, fine silk hose clung to the hard muscles of his legs. He fingered a thick, gold chain showing the traditional SSS design of Lancaster. “A gift from Louis,” he explained to his daughter. “A token of his esteem and support.” His forty-one-year-old face looked young, exuberant.
Anne couldn’t face him. In her mind she pictured her father on a magnificent steed, back on a London lane. His banner of the Bear and Ragged Staff was fluttering in the wind. English voices were crying “Warwick, Warwick.” A hero’s banner for the premier noble of the land. Such a little while ago.
Warwick ignored her silence. His thoughts were focused on his future plans. “The great days will come again,” he said. “And there’ll be no fickle Edward to gainsay me. He betrayed me by his secret marriage to the Woodville, Elizabeth, and by trusting others over me. God is not just. I made Edward a King and I can bring him down. His crown will adorn the head of a Lancastrian once again. Forget old enmities, my daughter. Scorpio with its brilliant red star, my star, is high in the heavens. The scorpion will sting Yorkists ‘till they flee the field.” He smiled at Anne. He hoped she would laugh at the anecdote.
Anne didn’t seem to hear him. The spired cathedral loomed ahead. At its entrance the Earl helped his daughter dismount and led her gently down the long center nave to the high altar. Stained glass windows splashed multi-colored patterns across the sanctuary. A priest, soundlessly moving on bare feet, approached with a gold cross, in the crystal center of which Anne could see a splinter of dark wood.
“As you requested, my Lord” the most holy treasure, the Cross of St. Laud d’Angiers, containing a blessed piece of our Savior’s own sacred cross.”
Anne gazed in wonderment. The dark splinter must be stained with the very blood of the crucified Christ. She concentrated on the precious relic, entranced. “Does it work miracles?”
“No my dear.” Warwick answered, for the priest had moved away leaving the cross on the altar. “Yet it has great power. Anyone swearing on this cross and then perjuring oneself will die within the year.”
Anne nodded. “A most fearful relic, indeed.”
“Listen, my love. On this cross, I swore to uphold the righteous quarrel of King Henry of Lancaster for the crown of England. And more. I pledged your betrothal to Edward, Prince of Wales, son of Margaret and Henry, to seal the bargain for the Enterprise of England. Do you understand? ” His hands were heavy on her shoulders. “On this very cross.”
Then what Margaret said that horrible night was true, Anne thought. Her father had just confirmed her rantings. “I understand, father. You will die if you forswear your vow.” The cathedral darkened as a cloud ominously hid the sun. In a side chapel someone chanted Misere mei Deus.
“So you too must vow. To doubly bind the oath. A covenant you dare not break.” Warwick knew his daughter, knew she might rebel. Anne faced her imperious father with disbelief. “Didn’t you hear about the fire, father? Margaret came to my chamber last night. Cursed and terrified me. You must know how she set fire to the room with the intent that I perish. How can you have me wed into a state of constant fear the rest of my life?” Warwick was surprisingly indifferent. “The fire was surely an accident, Anne. Margaret is obsessed with hell and damnation, and her mind was probably addled with wine from dinner. When she saw the flames her brain undoubtedly fevered. You are imagining her intentions, my dear.” Warwick was apparently willing to overlook the peril to his daughter to realize his own ambitions. “You must pledge your troth, daughter.”
Anne winced, diminished by the intensity of his command. Everything towered above her: her father, the choir stalls, the arched ceiling. She struggled against fatigue and pain. A scattering of burns, deeply red and moist, smarted on her back. Her shoulder was swollen and bruised. It had taken several hours of ministrations by chambermaids to clean the soot from her body.
Even now the smoky aroma lingered. Not for some political scheme called the Enterprise of England would she face such a night again. “You don’t need me, father. Margaret is determined not to allow the consummation of my marriage with Prince Edward. She will have me done away with at the first opportunity.” Anne took a deep breath and dared the ultimate reason. “I would marry Richard, he is my only love.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Warwick held his anger at bay. “Richard is part of the Court now. No doubt he keeps a mistress. Why would he continue to care about you?”
“He would marry me someday. So he said, those days at Warwick Castle.”
“You were just children.” The pressure of his hands increased. “Forget him. He is brother to a King who discredits my greatness. King Edward will never allow Richard to wed the daughter of his enemy.”
Warwick made a plea to Anne’s family allegiance. “Wouldn’t you wish to see Warwick Castle again, and Middleham? Think of your mother and your sister, Isabel. Should they live in exile forever? I will regain all that was lost. With the military at my command and the support of King Louis, I will establish our Neville family name once again. He kissed her forehead. “For your mother, Anne, for me, for all we have shared.”
He waited. She was a child in his arms. It seemed only a few years ago she had been a baby, bright with dimpled smiles between two fair braids. For a moment he also saw a younger self, totally at ease in a world where trust and friendship were the pattern. That world no longer existed, not for him. He had become a legend; he must live it out. For a brief moment he knew he was trapped in his own dream.
Anne cried. She was exhausted from all the attempts to reason with her father. Then, helpless, vulnerable to gentleness, she reached forward and touched the crystal center of the cross. “I pledge myself to Edward of Lancaster,” she sighed.
Patiently, her father held her until she could stop the heavy, racking sobs. She wept for them all, for a time forever lost, a love never to be known.
Elsewhere, while Anne and Warwick were on their way to Angiers, Prince Edward and Maragaret of Anjou were on the stony road to Amboise. Prince Edward was atop his horse, Mars. It was the one perfect thing he possessed; white as snow, a stallion fit for a king. In fact, the horse was a loan from Louis, but Edward treated it as though it was his own. He was more caring of the creature than he was of those about him.
“Why do we have to leave the castle,” he demanded of his mother for the third time. “I would know the Neville mouse better. Explain again to me how her chamber came to catch fire.”
“She’s no mouse,” Margaret replied, recalling Anne’s fierce resistance in her chamber. She glared up at her son from her own mare. “I told you. I was heady with wine and accidentally knocked over a candle in her solar. She will spread lies that I tried to kill her, burn down the castle, all sorts of wild nonsense.” Margaret actually believed her own untruths
“Lies, mother?” Edward eyed his mother shrewdly.
“I only intended to frighten her. Let her know that the daughter of Warwick is not willingly accepted into our household.”
“Warwick may be your way back to the throne, mother. But I want Warwick’s daughter as my bride. Will she follow us to Amboise later in the week?”
“With certainty.” Margaret wondered how much more she could endure. The last nine years she had lived for her son. Edward was perfect in her mind despite the weaknesses pointed out by his tutor. How could he want the Neville tramp? The Neville girl was unworthy. Let him take some village woman to toss in the sweaty embrace men needed. She thought with disgust of Edward’s loins pressed against Anne Neville�
�s naked body.
Margaret glanced up at her son with flashing eyelashes, a trick she had mastered long ago when men had declared themselves slain by cupid’s arrows from such a glance. Men were fools. “The little Neville’s a narrow-hipped wench, Edward.”
The Prince thumped his horse. “A tight squeeze. All the better. I am ready to wed, bed and be off to England to fight the Yorkists. I will do away with them all. Life is so dull here.” Edward’s face was flushed with excitement.
Margaret was well aware of her son’s lechery. How could he want such a useless creature? A cold fury coalesced about her heart. At least Warwick’s daughter would serve their purpose. She smiled serenely. “It may be some weeks before you wed. King Louis must obtain the nuptial dispensation. Only the Advance Guard goes to England. We will follow when all is secure.”
“I should be in the forefront, with Warwick and Oxford.”
“No, your place is at my side,” she said pleasantly.
“My place is in England where I will be hailed as the Prince of Wales. And someday I will inherit the crown.” Edward already had designs of his own to rule the Kingdom.
“But think how lonesome the little Neville lass would be.” Margaret shaped the words calmly. Rage and ravished pride hid behind her lowered eyes. Her son might stay in France a while longer for Warwick’s chit of a daughter. “Neville blood runs hot, no doubt,” she added with scorn.
Edward grinned. “It would be a sin to leave a virgin behind.”
Margaret was satisfied in her own mind that, knowing her son’s rash and unpredictable behavior, Anne would at least be instrumental in keeping her son occupied here in France until it was safe to take him onto English soil. Not until she was certain that Warwick had secured the island would she return with her prince. When England was truly won, Warwick’s daughter would not escape the flames of hell a second time.
CHAPTER 10
Anne would not speak with her father again for some time. The first week of August 1470, he rode off to Normandy to gather his invasion force, accompanied by French mercenaries, Lancastrian exiles, and a heavy bag of French gold. The Countess gave him an engraved stirrup cup in the courtyard at Angiers. Anne waved a farewell but she knew her father didn’t see her. His vision was focused on the future, on England, and regaining his glory.
Anne’s mother came to her side as Warwick’s cavalcade cleared the drawbridge of the castle. The Countess smiled bravely. “A bold sight, daughter.” In her heart she wanted weep in anguish. A desperate gamble. A route without middle ground. All won--or lost.
“Yes, mama. Father looks splendid.” Anne felt a touch of the old admiration. By St. George, her father would dare the world.
“I’ll miss him so.” The Countess crossed herself. “God willing, we will spend Christmas in Warwick Castle, and I can light candles in the chapel of my ancestors for our safe deliverance.”
“Did father tell you Margaret set fire to my chamber?” Anne immediately regretted the question. Happy anticipation faded from her mother’s face. “He told me only that you were in accord with the Enterprise of England. Say no more of it. Besides, Margaret and her son left Angiers the day after we dined together. They’ve gone on to Amboise.”
Anne was surprised that her mother did not know about her experience with Margaret or possibly her unwillingness to admit her knowledge of it. “Then do you know of the marriage to Prince Edward I vowed?”
“Yes, by which, through the might of your father’s sword, you will become Princess of Wales. Love comes after marriage, Anne. I know it’s difficult for you to know these things my child.”
She stopped as John de Vere approached and bowed before them with a flourish. The Earl of Oxford was Anne’s uncle by marriage to her father’s sister, Margaret. “I’m to return to Amboise today,” he informed them. I’ve heard that Prince Edward most eagerly awaits you, Mademoiselle, as would any man. I envy him.” His words slithered about, smooth as silk. “Then I leave for a triumph in England. Finally, Lancaster will rule again.”
The Countess nodded. It was hard to think of de Vere as an ally now since he had been a dreaded Lancastrian enemy for so long. “We will be off to Amboise in a few days ourselves.” She managed a polite response. After all he now fights in her husband’s cause. “I would have Anne meet our hostess, Queen Charlotte now, if you please.”
De Vere bowed again, his cap sweeping the ground. “As you wish, Madam, and I will inform the Prince of your imminent visit.” Then, turning to Anne, “May you be happy in your life with Prince Edward.” Oxford cared naught if Anne were happy or not. He merely played his expected role, and they all knew it.
The Queen of France was not one of the role players. Charlotte of Savoy was coddling her spindly son when Anne and her mother entered her chambers. She held up the baby, whose overlarge head lolled sideways and his legs were ominously curved. After two daughters, God had given her a son. She saw no imperfections in her baby.
“They tell me he looks just like his father at a month’s age.” Charlotte sat down and nuzzled the infant. “So you are the bride-to-be. Tell me about yourself ma petite.”
Anne had learned that Charlotte was a considerate person so she planned her words carefully. “Madame, first let me congratulate you on your handsome son.”
“Indeed yes. France is blessed in having a dauphin.” Anne’s mother watched Anne uneasily. She had never seen her daughter appear so determined. Every muscle in her young face was tense.
Then Anne took a deep breath. “As for myself, Madame, may I ask your counsel? I wish that my vow on the cross of St. Laud be absolved. At the time I was confused and weary, acting without thought. Surely such a pledge is not binding.”
“Anne,” the Countess gasped, “your father.... his plans.”
“He doesn’t need me. I’ll go to a nunnery. Isabel rests at Honfleur. I could join her.” Anne held herself in tight control. She didn’t dare add her secret hope of finding passage to England, though the idea beckoned intensely as a constant but distant summer song.
Charlotte patted Anne’s arm. “My dear child, no one could absolve you from such a vow on the true cross.” The Queen thought back to her own youthful marriage. This girl was lovely as a spring flower while, by comparison, she had been a plump and placid creature. “The years go by so quickly,” she said slowly. “You will soon forget your misgivings and find joy in your children.”
“Madame, I beg you. You are Queen. The Pope....”
“.... Would not let you forswear your vows and hazard your soul,” she interrupted. Charlotte knew she must tell Louis to have a watch kept on this girl. She sensed a daring desperation. A few men-at-arms should accompany them to Amboise.
“Anne will do as her father wishes,” the Countess assured the Queen. “He knows what is best.” She then embraced her daughter. “Anne, dearest child, women were meant to obey. You know this.”
Charlotte watched the two and wondered what God and the stars had ordained for them. She pressed a small ruby ring into Anne’s hand. “You will be in my prayers.”
“Thank you Madame.” Anne now realized to her dismay that she had alerted everyone to her intentions. She’d be given no chance to escape, even if she risked the peril of the Cross. Yet the Queen meant well. She smiled dully. “You are kind, Madame.”
“May the saints and Blessed Virgin watch over you.” Charlotte thought it sad to see a young girl so unhappy, but time would heal the hurt. It always did.
It was a three-day leisurely ride to Amboise. Anne and her entourage spent the first night at the adorned fortress Samer, where gilt weathervanes glittered on a fortress of slim towers. By the second stop at Plessis-les-Tours Castle, King Louis’ favorite residence, the ladies-in-waiting, assigned to the Nevilles by Charlotte, whispered complaints of stiff saddle sores. Their fragile bodies were not accustomed to such an indelicate condition. Anne subdued a laugh. They’d not get far in Yorkshire. She remembered riding across the Yorkshire dales with Richard. She
wondered if he knew of her plight.
The third day they approached Amboise, where the chateau of old stone brooded darkly on high ground over the clutter of huts below. Anne saw a man riding toward them. She let herself imagine for a moment this was another place, another person.
“It’s the Prince,” one of the attendants whispered. “You are indeed honored.”
The Countess moved to her daughter’s side. “Anne, don’t harden your heart. It will only bring grief.”
Edward of Lancaster doffed his cap, smiled. “Countess, Lady Anne, welcome.” His eyes roamed lustfully over Anne, his bride-to-be. In countless dreams, in myriad ways, he had possessed her.
Anne wet her parched lips. “It’s gracious of you to ride out and meet us.”
In the clear daylight, Edward’s smile had the Valois thinness. The cool sharp eyes were from his mother’s side. Edward moved his horse along side Anne’s as they rode uphill toward the chateau. “Tu es vraiment belle,” he whispered. “I thought a marriage of politics meant a long-nosed bride with bad teeth. The English all have rotted teeth,” he blurted indiscreetly. Heat filled his loins. She seemed to have blossomed in a single week.
“I think England will have many pleasant surprises for you.” Anne’s voice was neutral, trying to be calm, polite.
“After nine years in exile, God’s nails, I am certain of that.”
He came closer, his thigh pressed against hers. “I know my mother detests you.” His left arm crept about her waist. “But, by Venus, we can find better things to do than hate each other.” He wanted to rip away the thin silk of her bodice. His arm was tight, hot. Anne could hear the ladies’ soft tittering.
“When we know each other better....” Anne couldn’t finish. Every night with this man would be a nightmare, she thought. Her body his plaything. He had waited nine years to revenge himself on York. She would be the first victim.
Edward’s hand moved boldly across Anne’s bodice. “It will soon be such a pleasure to know everything about you.” Petrified, Anne couldn’t answer. He laughed a coarse laugh and moved away.
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 5