Richard crossed himself and held the legends close.
Malory’s voice rattled in his throat. In one suspended moment, he remembered himself as a boy at Warwick Castle. The legends had haunted him since then. His face became peaceful. He looked beyond Richard, beyond Newgate and time itself.
“I go to my own Camelot,” he said haltingly, and closed his eyes as if in a gentle sleep. Richard left the cell with Mallory’s lifeless body cradled in his arms.
Richard brought the collection of manuscripts to Anne, some faded and difficult to read, others done more recently, but all in the same elaborate elegance and style. They spent many pleasant afternoons together reading through the legends. Anne was touched by this creative but afflicted man who, at the end of his days, had saved her. A deed worthy of his most noble knight in the stories, though it cost him his freedom. She accepted Malory’s death in sadness and yet was uplifted by the spirit of his words.
On one of those pleasant afternoons, she leaned close to Richard. Distantly they could hear the scuffling and murmurs of the residents in St. Martin le Grand. She kissed Richard and asked the question heavy on her mind. “Are we any closer to our special day and our departure from this place?”
Richard understood her concern. “The King is even now hearing my petition on the land settlement with Clarence. I must be cautious with Clarence lest he make more trouble, especially for our heirs.
“Then I’ll be patient. I have asked Isabel to send my clothes from The Erber; along with the coral rosary my mother gave me. It will bring us good fortune I am certain.”
“My Love, I’ve brought you a present.” Richard motioned to one of the squires who guarded the door. He carried what appeared to be a monstrous paddle wrapped in a blanket.
“What Yuletide trick?”
“No trick Sweeting. It has been cleaned, rewired, tuned and beribboned....” He pulled away the blanket.
“My lute!” She hugged it. “You sent to Warwick for it.” The green ribbons twined through her fingers. “Ah, but I’ve not played in so long.”
“So now you must.” Richard’s lips brushed her hair. “We’ve no other singers.”
Slowly, Anne adjusted the pegs of the wire strings, humming and listening. Her pale golden hair fell across Richard’s doublet and he curled a piece through his fingers. She let the day’s contentment fill her. She’d try. The song was from the days at Middleham.
Anne gently took the lute in her hands and the words came sweetly from her heart.
“Weep no more, weep no more
Flowers bloom on a northern moor.
And I will dry my eyes, dry my eyes
For love was born in paradise.”
Richard held her tightly. She looked so young and fragile. Their worries would soon be over. The legal squabble with Clarence and the malevolent Woodville Court would not matter. Before long they would be crossing the northern moors on their way home.
II. CHAPTER 21
King Edward, frustrated over the conflicts between Clarence and Richard, summoned them before his Council. Richard accused Clarence of Anne’s abduction, and Clarence pleaded ignorance in spite of the testimony of Nan Fitz Hugh and the cook shop proprietor, Tom.
“Your Grace, my brother is determined to prevent my marriage to Anne and has created fearful circumstances,” Richard implored.
Clarence was quick to respond. “Richard claims a love for his cousin, but I suspect he only wants her inheritance. She is the daughter of a traitor and, as with her mother, should be deprived of all lands and properties.”
The King was persuaded, somewhat, by Clarence’s argument. “What say you about that, Richard?”
“My Lord, I am, and always have been, in love with Anne, as you surely know. If it will satisfy Clarence, I will give up all Warwick lands bestowed upon me, except for Middleham and the Yorkshire estates. The only other request is that I implore Your Grace to release Anne’s mother soon from sanctuary in Beaulieu Abbey, so that she may be with Anne and me at Middleham.”
Clarence was quick to accept. “If you include the manors at Warwick and vest me with the office of Great Chamberlain of England and the Earldom of Warwick and Salisbury, I will not contest your marriage further or the release of Anne Beauchamp from sanctuary.”
Clarence’s demands were ridiculous, but the test of Richard’s love for Anne was in his response. “None of those things matter in comparison with the depth of my love for Anne. I do so agree to all your request, so we can be together.”
The King was unbelieving but relieved at the agreement, and very proud of Richard. “So be it, brothers. Richard, go forth and claim your love. And Clarence, henceforth you are never to interfere with the affairs of Richard in this matter. I will not tolerate another incident. Let us all be united again to further the needs of the Kingdom. Go in peace.”
The third week in February, about mid-day, the message came to Anne in Richard’s clear handwriting. “Dress in your most elegant gown and bedeck yourself in your finest jewels, Sweeting. We are free to wed, R.”
The lassitude of the last weeks fled from Anne in one joyous flush as she prepared for her wedding day. Her hands trembled as she turned over the contents of the coffer for her favorite gown. The dress from Windsor was designed for summer. Nevertheless, she’d wear it and the collar received from Richard. Anne sent a quick mental thanks to Aunt Cicely for the mirror and cosmetics.
She was still combing her hair so it fell in waves down her back, when there was a lively commotion in the corridor. The knock was a command. She opened the door expecting Richard, and drew a startled breath, King Edward stood there in his favorite gold and red attire, smiling at her.
“Your Grace.” She knelt.
He lifted her quickly. “Don’t kneel to anyone except God, Anne Neville.”
She stared at him.
“I came to escort you to your wedding, Lady Anne, as a special favor to my loyal brother.” A serious look came over him. “Also, I want you to know that Richard has fought a bitter battle to win you. He relinquished his position as Great Chamberlain of England for the simple office of Warden of the Royal Forests beyond Trent. He also let Clarence have the Warwick Manors in order to keep peace. He knows it is wise not to anger George further. I think he’d have let him have all but Middleham, if needs be.”
Anne stood stunned. “Your Grace, I don’t know why Richard cares for me so.”
The hard remote expression faded from Edward’s face. “Because you are, in a delicate way, like your father, whom we both loved, despite his past actions. And because you’ve survived a year filled with hate and betrayal, and can still give love. Because you have cared for each other since childhood. Richard is a fortunate man to have someone with your devotion, dedication and understanding.”
She nodded. “Yes, Richard is my verity.”
“Well, horses await, Lady Anne. Let us proceed to Westminster Abbey,” he said in a jovial manner.
They rode through the streets of London, lined with the King’s subjects. She heard the people cheering him and several times she heard “Warwick’s daughter” in a low murmur. Anne didn’t recognize any face or the streets they traveled.
At the Abbey, the King helped her down from the Royal coach and led her into the vast nave. The cathedral was lit by the pale glimmer of the February day. The flag of St. George with its cross, red as the holy martyr’s blood against the white field, stirred in the chill drafts blowing about the nave. Edward led her directly to the Chapel of the Confessor and said she should wait a moment for the service to begin. Anne nodded, understandingly.
It was very quiet. The Confessor’s shrine of Purbeck marble, gleamed with its inlay of gold and glass mosaic. Tombs loomed all about: That of Edward III, a common ancestor to all of them; Richard II with the long, narrow face and beard whose effigy stared upward with contemplative, half-closed eyes as though he were dreaming forever of the crown he’d lost; candles burned about the tomb of Eleanor of Castile, as they h
ad for almost two hundred years.
From here, too, she could see the silver-plated effigy of Henry V, covering in splendor the sarcophagus of the victor of Agincourt. So here they all rested. Many other people had waited in the Confessor’s shrine for weddings or coronations. She wondered if any ghosts lingered within the Abbey, where such vibrant lives had once roamed.
Shortly, Richard was there, and putting her hand on his in the formal manner, led her to the altar in front of the chapel. Anne had one quick glance at a small group gathered in the choir. She saw George Neville, Archbishop of York, standing uneasily at the altar. She knelt, with Richard by her side. She realized they had never received a dispensation from the church. She didn’t care. This day was made in heaven.
They exchanged their vows. The Archbishop began the wedding Mass. He moved as an old man, and did not look beyond the limits of the sanctuary. His twitching eyes stared down at the Holy Eucharist. The familiar Latin phrases were repeated: “Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum....Hie Est Enim Calix Sanguinis Mei.” Anne lifted her eyes no higher than the lace hem of his embroidered alb.
Forcing her hand to be steady, she took Holy Communion and looked with shy hope at the suffering Savior on the cross that, in some miraculous way, was a part of the bread and wine. She prayed silently in gratitude. Tears filled her eyes, emotion broke through, and her heart pleaded, “Oh abide with us Bless us. Have mercy.” There was a ringing of bells, the familiar words of the Pater Nostre. As she fingered the coral rosary, she wished her mother could be there to share her joy.
The Archbishop then bestowed the nuptial blessing. Richard assisted his bride to her feet and lifted her face for a kiss. He was the joy of her youth, the joy of her life. She smiled at him as she whispered, “All’s well my Love.”
“Sweeting.” Richard kept his arm about her even as he drew back a little to better see her face. “Anne---always you and you alone.”
When spring arrived suddenly in March of 1472, they left London and rode north, past Barnet and St. Albans, to Leicester and Nottingham. Still going north, they rode to Pontefract and finally Fountains Abbey, the entrance to the dales. Along the way a warm March wind followed them, as though the sweet April of Chaucer’s promise had come early so they might return home.
They never looked back. All life stretched ahead. A number of Richard’s retainers, as well as Friar Michael Lynn, traveled with them. They sang merrily as they rode. When they saw some early periwinkles in pink bloom, Richard placed one in his hat and one in the curve of Anne’s bodice. From Fountains Abbey’s immensity, they traveled the short way to Jervaulx, where they were served by their Hospitarim, As Though They Were Christ Himself, for such was the Abbey’s motto.
Sometimes at Middleham, as a child, Anne remembered hearing the bells of Jervaulx nearby. She felt lightness in her being. In a few more miles, home. The monks at the Abbey encouraged them to stay the night. They could not while there was still time to get to Middleham before dark. She smiled at Richard in silent pleading, and he knew, so they went on.
“Journey’s end,” Anne said it softly. She’d told herself the castle couldn’t possibly be as she remembered it. Yet it was.
As Middleham stood in perfection welcoming them, the western sun sent slanting rays of pale gold so the towers cast lengthening shadows. They rode around to the northeast entrance. Stone sentinels, silent, weathered friends from childhood, stared down at them. Granite walls soared in crenellated defiance. A fortress since before the Conquest, Anne’s ancestor, Robert Neville of Raby, built the present castle in the thirteenth century. There had been great marriages and broods of handsome children through the years. Each generation added and changed the character of the castle.
The ashlar-faced walls of the Norman Keep were ten to twelve feet thick, and over one hundred feet long. The Great Hall with its gabled roof and old-fashioned central fireplace could feed and house two hundred and fifty individuals. Pride in Middleham was her birthright. Now fresh bread would be baked in the huge ovens again, the forges would clang, candles would burn in the chapel. Anne drew a deep breath. “How I missed this wonderful place. My soul resides in every stone.”
The windlass creaked. The drawbridge lowered in a stately welcome. She felt a racing excitement as the portcullis of the inner arch rose. The constable of the castle and several stewards bowed. In an instant the courtyard filled with men and horses. Pages brought mounting blocks, grooms attended to bridles and weary horses. Anne realized Richard must have arranged all this in advance of their coming. She glanced up at the outdoor stairway which ran along the eastside of the Keep. There her mother had always stood to greet her father. For a moment she blinked back tears. She wouldn’t weep. All had been happiness here. Slowly she dismounted from her horse and walked the final steps.
With her right hand she touched the great, walled Keep. She inhaled the smell of leather, horses’ sweat and dust. So many familiar faces recalled. She hoped that her mother would join them soon. Richard was by her side. Despite the turmoil of arriving, she was never lost from his sight.
Anne took his hand and joined it with hers upon the ancient wall. “Here, Richard, we will know completeness.” Richard drew her close. “My Love, we have reached one journey’s end this day and you have given a new meaning and purpose to my life. Though this is an ending, yet it is a new beginning in our lives together. Whatever lies ahead, I can succeed with you beside me.”
Secure in their happiness, Richard knew that he and Anne must use the strength of their love to carry them through the adversity and challenges they would face in their new life. He realized also that, against their will, they might be caught up in the conflict, once again, surrounding the struggles for control of the kingdom.
RICHARD III AND ANNE NEVILLE
PART III
1473-1483
ENDURE FOREVER
But I with all my heart and all my strength,
As I have said, will love until my death
My dear heart, and my very own knight,
To whom my heart has grown so fast,
And his to me, that it shall endure forever.
“Troilus and Criseyde” by Geoffrey Chaucer
III. CHAPTER 1
Through the remainder of 1472 and the first months of 1473, Richard and Anne forged their union and began winning the hearts of the Northerners. While Anne saw to the ordered management of the castle, Richard was busy communicating with the captains of the North Country trying, in particular, to come to an agreement with Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland. Peace in the region depended on his success with the Earl.
Despite his many new duties, Richard made many changes to the castle that were suggested by Anne, including a new bay window to the Presence Chamber and a second story to the Round Tower in the quiet south corner of the castle grounds. From its leaded windows, Anne could see to the south where the moors drifted endlessly, blending with the skyline. A miniature Pleasance was designed for her, complete with a lively little fountain splashing into a marble basin decorated with stone leaves and hearts.
Anne was not surprised when Richard had his motto Loyaulté Me Lei (Loyalty Binds Me) and his shield of the White Boar, an anagram based on the Latin spelling of York (Ebor), engraved in stone on the castle wall. In simple terms, Anne knew he harbored a deep need for loyalty within. The word was a gauntlet thrown down to a lifetime of betrayals.
The relaxing atmosphere and freedom from the demands and bickering of the Wooodville Court were conducive to beginning a family, and during the summer Anne felt the stirrings of life in her body. That winter, Richard was summoned for council with the King. When he returned the spring of 1474, Anne had borne him a son in the newly completed Round Tower “so that her child could see its heritage spread before him,” as Anne explained.
Richard was pleased beyond joy that Anne had given him a son and heir. “He has your beautiful golden hair, Anne.”
“But he has your deep blue eyes, Richard. What shall we name him
? I would like the name Richard, after your father and mine.”
“No, my Love. Richard is not a name to bring luck. Richard II was murdered and your father and mine were slain in battle. Best we name him Edward, after the King.”
“You are right, Richard, but between us, let us call him Ned.”
Richard understood. “Ned it shall be, Sweeting. He will be loved and cherished by whatever name he comes by.
This is a most happy time for me, and I thank you for giving me such a beautiful son.”
“What news do you bring from London?” Anne sensed that behind Richard’s happy demeanor, there were other matters on his mind.
“There have been some disturbing problems, Anne. The Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, and I, met with the King and he has arranged a compact with the two of us whereby I will have authority in the North over Percy so long as I respect his rights. The King cherishes peace in the region.”
Anne was relieved that was the extent of Richard’s concerns. “So that’s settled. We can have harmony with our northern leaders.”
“There is more, Sweeting. Brother George is stirring up trouble with the Lancastrians again. The King believes he conspires with George Neville, Archbishop of York, and John deVere, the Earl of Oxford. Oxford has been raiding Calais with the support of the French King Louis. To quell the matter, Louis has imprisoned the Archbishop in Hammes Castle in Calais were he now resides. London is in a state of disorder. Each citizen looks to his own protection.”
“But except for Isabel, this should not touch our lives, Richard.”
“George is uneasy. Isabel is with child again and is sickly. If George succeeds, it will sweep us up as well. Remember, the Lancastrian Parliament declared him heir if Prince Edward of Lancaster and his father were dead. Now this has come to pass and George fancies himself King someday.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 19