Damn Clarence. A dash to London in the middle of the night was perhaps but a natural, dramatic gesture to him, Anne pondered. She shrugged and continued to follow as the woman crossed the parade grounds to the Curfew Tower, built long ago in the thirteenth century, often used as a prison.
“Inside,” she urged. “His Grace said inside.”
Anne put her hand on the damp stone surface. “Nay, I’ll wait here.” She looked up at the sky and wondered at the time. It must be close to three o’clock in the morn. The creeping chill of night closed mistily about the whole Lower Ward. The bells would probably soon ring the hour.
Again the woman touched her sleeve. “Please, my Lady. The air’s cold. Inside, please.”
“No. You may tell the Duke of Clarence I’m here. And where is my sister?”
“Oh m’Lady, I beg you.” The woman grew distraught. “His Grace promised me another gold piece if all was done as he ordered. Lady, my child has terrible stomach pains. With the gold I’ll buy some Betony wine an’ the white poppy juice. What does it matter if you wait inside? It will be warm. Anne heard the Watch again and the chilly fear receded. “I am going back,” she said bluntly. “Tell George of Clarence to fetch me himself.”
She turned and tripped in the darkness. Without a light it was a maze, not of shrubs and flowers, but of blackness, unknown objects and vague shadows. Moving carefully, she started toward the dim silhouette of the Round Tower, one hand outstretched before her, the other holding her cloak.
A torch blazed in the darkness against the west curtain wall and Anne called, “Watch, a light here, if you please.”
“No, sister-in-law, you don’t need the Watch.” In quick steps Clarence was by her side, his features distorted by the flickering of the torch. Behind him were hulking shadows, two of his henchmen.
“You frightened me half to death, George.” Her uneasiness turned to disgust. George was obviously very drunk. “Where’s Isabel?”
“Isabel waits in the coach. Come, Anne.” Clarence’s words blurred together. He stumbled over the paving stones. “We leave for London.”
“Not tonight. Nor should Isabel leave Windsor if she is ill. She can be attended here.”
Clarence grasped her arm so hard she flinched. His breath stank. He belched and spewed wine down his chin.
There’d be no reasoning with him, Anne thought with contempt. She managed to say calmly, “Well then, George, let’s go back to the state apartments and have a drink to warm us on this chill journey.”
Clarence laughed. “No, little Anne. Come, and on the way back to London, I’ll tell you some interesting things about my saintly brother Richard.”
She stood still though the pain in her arm was intense. “You’re not my guardian any longer, George. Perhaps I’ll follow you to London in the morning.”
“My would-be-heiress, you’ll come tonight.” The words were a hoarse, hot whisper in her ear.
“No. George, I’ll not come.” She glanced about, thinking of the hundreds of people sleeping nearby yet sensing no security. There was a remote quiet at this west-most end of the castle. Anne wondered if Clarence had bribed the guards. She knew the first sharp pricks of real fear. “Where’s Isabel?” she asked again.
George nodded to the two burly, blank-faced men wearing his badge. Anne started to run as they half seized her and, twisting free, she plunged into the dark shadows of the night. Crouching against the curtain wall she could hear their low voices, and she put her hand over her mouth to quiet her hard breathing. If the Watch would but come soon, she could call for help. Her heart beat in her throat and her body trembled with cold and terror, but she dared not move. Anne gave one startled gasp as the bells of the Curfew Tower chimed the hour and, in the same moment, the two henchmen seized her. She struggled and pulled, crying aloud.
Throughout the castle the bells clamored, drowning out her cries. At an order from Clarence, one of the henchmen picked her up and carried her to the Curfew Tower and down the staircase within the walls to the basement, where dampness and age clung heavily to the thirteen-foot thick walls. Some rusted battle weapons still hung from pegs. All about was the musty smell of rot and dampness. Mice scurried away as Clarence lit a torch in one of the ancient iron wall brackets. Petrified, Anne stumbled and fell to her knees as the servants put her down. She was going to die, she thought in desperation. Clarence was drunk with wine and rage, and he’d kill her.
Clarence’s voice seemed distant, yet she could see the elongated points of his shoes. “It was I who slew your Lancaster Prince at Tewkesbury. He thought to sit on the throne that was meant to be mine. Well the Lancastrian Parliament declared me the successor to the throne after Prince Edward, and since King Henry has been executed and I have slain your Prince, I am the rightful King of England.” Clarence’s tone grew menacing. He pulled Anne to her feet. “I did you a favor, did I not?”
Anne swallowed, fear, and dry as tinder in her mouth. The scene at Tewkesbury was momentarily clearer than the packed earth and ancient stone.
Clarence laughed. “You are eager to bed with my brother, little wench. Do you think he really loves you? Don’t be deceived. He only wants your lands and property. It will never happen. With you out of the way, it will all be mine.” His words became more slurred with each gulp of wine.
She was silent. The estates of her father, for the most part, were Richard’s under the grant from the King, whether he married her or not. The rest of the inheritance was the cause of the quarrel.
Suddenly her brother-in-law jerked her closer. He breathed down on her, odious and repulsive, but she couldn’t draw back. Anne saw the dagger he wore. A small, jeweled toy. It would be enough.
She wondered if any words would penetrate his wine-drenched brain.
“George, if you kill me, you will pay dearly. The charge will be murder. The penalty will be death. Remember, Richard is Constable of England.”
George laughed. “Death! No, no, dear sister-in-law to be. You will face oblivion instead, a non-existence.”
Anne looked at his haggard face in puzzlement.
He enjoyed himself. It was all like a little drama, a fool’s play. “And to take with you into oblivion, daughter of Warwick, know this. Richard fathered two children in the past year. A girl called Catherine and a boy, newborn, named John.”
Anne was stunned. “He would have told me.”
Clarence shrugged. “Perhaps he would have, in time. But there is no time left for you.”
He jerked her head back, forcing her to look up. “I want to see that knowledge in your eyes. You can think about it in your lost future.” His words bled together. His grip on Anne slackened. For a moment she thought to run. George nodded at his servants. “Now!”
Suddenly she felt a blow to her head followed by darkness streaked with flashes of light.
II. CHAPTER 14
“Hot sheep’s feet, girl?”
A boy of about eight stood over Anne, offering food. His nose was running. His upper lip was a mass of scabs. A larger boy, at least thirteen, sat beside her. He’d pushed aside her clothes and was touching her breasts. She wondered if the two were part of a disordered dream. Her head ached, throbbing. Her body was dull with pain. She felt her wrists flame with rope burns. Using all the strength she had, Anne pushed aside the curious young hand. The boys were real enough. “Water,” she whispered.
The older one went to a keg and drew a half mug of beer. He sat down beside her and held her head as she sipped it. The room was a cavern of darkness. One taper burned in a wall sconce, dimly showing beer kegs, wine casks, and stone crocks. The mattress on which she lay was damp straw. There was the fetid odor of rat and mice droppings.
“Where am I?” Each word was an effort.
The older boy grinned. “The cook shop.”
“Your father’s?”
“Aye.” The younger one still held the sheep’s foot offering. “He be by when he close up for the’ night.”
Anne realize
d she was still in her dressing robe and cloak. It must be well over twelve hours since they left Windsor. By now Richard would be looking for her. A sad awareness followed immediately. How could he possibly find me?
The older boy tipped the beer mug and some ran down her chin. He took a deep swallow himself and tried again. “I be Peter. He be John. Had an auntie, all swell and holy. Christian names she called ‘em.”
Anne wondered how much the two boys knew. Probably nothing. The father might. “Bread, soup, please.” She forced the words through the haze of pain.
In an instant, both boys were up and promising to bring the very best. She heard them drop a cross bolt on the door as they left. They didn’t return.
Anne lay on the mattress. So she was a prisoner. She must have been flung across a horse and brought here. That would account for the aching body pain. Mice rustled in corners. Forcing herself, she fingered the tenderest place on the back of her head. It was still wet and swollen. She licked the sticky dampness on her fingers. Blood. To bind her wrists had been unnecessary.
The room faded into total darkness. Anne wondered if the mice or rats would smell the blood. Clarence’s words came in flashes of pain. “Richard.” “Two children.” God. Even as she endured agony in France. Still, gathering bastards was common enough for unmarried men, and many a married man, too. No one thought much about it. Richard was a Prince of the Realm, not a saint from heaven. After all, she herself was then married to Prince Edward. Her head ached so. She couldn’t bear to move. Oblivion, Clarence had said. A death in life. Would one day at Windsor be all she would have to remember? Anne tasted salty tears from her silent sobs.
The taper had long since burned out and it was totally dark when the door crashed open. She looked up. Fear gripped her.
He was a stocky man. In a hallway behind him, torches cast long shadows from iron sconces. She couldn’t see his face.
“So you be Anne o’ Warwick.” He smelled of mutton and smoke.
“Yes”
“Well, I be Tom an’ that’s all ya need to know. This be a cook shop. When yer ‘ead’s cleared, you be doin’ kitchen work. We need a hand.”
“The Duke of Gloucester will pay for my return.” Anne spoke pleadingly.
Tom chuckled. “Girl, the Duke o’ Clarence has ‘bout made me a rich man to keep you here. An’ keep you I will.” He stepped closer and sat down beside her. The shadows were still across his face as he pulled her clothes away.
“No. Please.” Anne pushed at him.
He laughed. “Scared, Anne o’ Warwick?”
Fear closed her throat. She tried to get away. His hand was grasping her firmly.
“Yer a bony wench.” He laughed again, “Why, my Betty’s got a bosom twice as big an’ a lot more bouncy,”
Anne closed her eyes. He was huge. “Gloucester. Constable.” She forced the words from the depths of her terror.
“Girlie, Gloucester’s never goin’ find you. How’d you like me to do it to you? I never had no fancy lady.”
Revolted, horrified, Anne lay still. She had no way to fight or escape.
Tom studied her, frightened, cringing. He yawned. “Yer too small and bony for my liking. I give ya to my boy in a bit. He be fourteen soon.” He scratched and crunched a flea. “So for now this be the way of it. I be Clarence’s man, ‘ave been since he set up his own house. A proud young cock o’ the walk. I don’ care ‘bout feuds against the King or any of the bloody pother. I just go along.
“So it can be this way. You tied up here all the time, it gets mighty damp when it rains, or you cun work in the kitchen just like any cook shop drab. An’ with no talk. You try talkin’ to someone an’ you be back down here ‘till you rot.
“I understand,” she said meekly.
“An’ ya eat wot my own eats. I got two boys an’ a fine wife. You mind her. She don’t know you, an’ she got a mean hand. Thinks yer some whore the Duke wants rid of.” Anne nodded. Even the slightest movement brought waves of pain.
“So up, girlie. An’ no tricks.” Anne tried to get up. The pounding in her head enveloped her. Nausea wrenched her empty stomach, and she bent forward in a dry coughing spasm. The room whirled. The hall torches became elongated. The dark figure in the doorway shrank slowly in size. A coldness raced down her spine. Cold, so cold. She leaned forward again and there was the beckoning hay. Dizzily, she sank into it. Deeper into the darkness....
Two days later a woman sat beside Anne, red of face and hair with amber eyes. Anne squinted as freckled hands wiped her face and arms. Then wearily, she opened her eyes fully.
“So, dearie, you been mighty sick.”
“How long have I been here?” Anne could barely speak. Her tongue was swollen, lips cracked.
The woman dipped a rag in a mug of water and held it over her mouth. “Open up, an’ I’ll drip some down. ‘Been doin’ that for two days. Think you’d died else.”
Anne did as she was told. Her head felt tied to the mattress.
The woman sat cross-legged beside her and dripped first water, then a clear soup, into her mouth. She surveyed Anne critically. “Bathed and dressed yer, too. An’ washed that crack on the head. Three cracks actually. Only one causin’ the trouble.” She re-dipped the cloth. “I’m Betty. Tom’s Betty. An’ he says yer Annie and the Duke’s tired of you.” She shook her head. “But wer to keep you safe ‘case he changes his fancy.” She grinned. “He paid us plenty. Ya must be a lively tumble.”
Anne didn’t answer. She remembered she and Clarence on the ship outside Calais. He had threatened her then. She’d been a fool to let him trap her. Without moving, she said slowly, “Where am I?”
“Why yer in Cheapside, girlie. An’ a grand cook shop we got now.” A small hope quickened. London is not so far then. Clarence had estates all over England and Ireland. She could have been imprisoned in some distant, unknown place. Perhaps Clarence considered this Tom especially reliable.
Betty was regarding her thoughtfully. “Yer got such small smooth han’s. An’ fine blonde hair. Wer yer a favorite whore?”
Anne thought of Isabel. Clarence’s one virtue was his fidelity to her sister. “No. Just a diversion.” She realized every word was crucial. “A ladies’ maid.”
Betty nodded. “And the Duchess found you out, I wager.” She laughed. “Well, no harm done. Yer must be hungry. ‘Tis white bread we got these days. Can ya chew?”
“I think so.”
“Aye, yer young. You’ll heal quick enough.”
Anne lay still after Betty left. She’d mend. She tried to summon resolve beyond that. Resolve to escape, to find Richard. Richard, father of two bastards. The will was further than her reach. Too much had happened. She had survived, yet not survived. She was sixteen years old and had seen all of life she cared to see.
Lying with her eyes closed in the stillness; she felt an all-enveloping fatigue. Striving was useless. Hopes were shattered. Her heart betrayed. Everyone probably came to such a time except the very, very fortunate and those who never cared. Anne wished, fleetingly, that she could be among those who didn’t care. Clarence spoke of her lost future. He was right. Ahead was degradation, desecration, a final crushing of her soul. Death was the alternative. She was so weak. Despair stirred sluggishly at the center of her being.
Anne was transferred to a small room above the kitchen. It was three weeks before she could sit up for any length of time. Betty was annoyed. “Yer best get well faster, girlie. The work be piling up. The pewter needs polishin’.” The woman looked tired herself. “Yer don’t be thinkin’ yer a fine lady, do ya?”
“No, Betty. I just get so dizzy.”
“Dizzy or no, it’s the kitchen tomorrow.”
“I’ll try. Really.” It had been raining for several days. Anne remembered the dank room below the cook shop. This room, while barely more than a closet, was warm, being over the kitchen. In the darkness of night, she wondered that she could care about comforts when she didn’t care if she lived or died. Sleep
eluded her. With the dawn she’d become, in every sense of the term, a kitchen drab. Yet so were hundreds, nay thousands of girls. It wasn’t that. What mattered was that Clarence had succeeded. He had killed all hope. Richard would look for and not finding her would turn to someone else. Her sister would probably not even suspect George. Nan Fitz Hugh could accuse the ladies’ maid who had, no doubt, disappeared. Her mother was probably still in seclusion in Beaulieu Abbey. The King would be glad that his bothers no longer argue over her. For the first time, Anne made a choice. She didn’t care to live. She wondered how to die. It would take a weapon. A kitchen knife. Tomorrow she’d take one from the shop. Strangely, on that thought, sleep came easily and deeply.
II. CHAPTER 15
Having searched for Anne in vain for days, Richard now confronted George. Trying to contain his desire to physically force the truth from him, Richard angrily demanded to know the whereabouts of Anne.
“I don’t know.” George feigned injured innocence. “I am no longer her guardian, as you are well aware.”
“Damn you, George.” Richard could not hold back and clouted his older brother. George reeled backwards. “You deceived her into thinking Isabel needed help late that night at Windsor. I’ve heard that much.”
“That’s not true. Isabel is fine. I would have had no need to summon her sister.” George held his finger to his jaw. He hadn’t any desire to get involved in hand-to-hand combat with Richard. George was taller but his younger brother was all muscle.
Richard said quietly, “Do not lie to me George, perhaps a few more blows on the head will jar your memory.”
“I’ve no memory to jar, brother. Why would I want to harm little Anne? Why, she’s Isabel’s sister.” George tried to sound convincing replying with previously rehearsed words.
Richard was incensed. “It’s no secret that you wish her out of the way so you can claim her share of her mother’s estate. Let me see your household lists. The names of everyone you employ. I have the King’s permission, so don’t complain to him. And I want to see Isabel as well.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 16