Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  “Such as?”

  “Clarence.” Ankarette took a deep breath. “Let’s go into the garden, my Lady.”

  Anne put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Ankarette, there’s more. Tell me.”

  “Conspiracy, back stabbing, treason. The usual. Clarence must have the crown. It obsesses him. And Isabel suffers for all the intrigue.”

  “He will never succeed. Yet he’d dare anything.” Anne pitied Isabel. To live with such vain ambition must mean bitter days and nights.

  “I know. So we have war to detract us from our problems.” Ankarette stood and lifted Ned. “One thing at a time though, my Lady. First we must tend to Ned.”

  And then, quickly as a summer storm, the war that never came to be, was over. The highways leading from the port towns were filled with returning soldiers who related their strange tale to the people. There had been no victory, no battle. The soldiers were foul-tempered, empty of purse and glory.

  The populous were also bitter. Taxes raised, benevolences and gifts given for the war had paid for nothing but defeat in their mind.

  By September of 1476, Richard was home. Wearily, still in armor, he explained his frustrations to Anne. “And so Edward, our King, sold his honor for French gold and promises. Most of his advisers: Clarence, Hastings and Northumberland, all agreed to a truce. Louis would pay them handsomely, and we would slink home. Charles of Burgundy was furious, but his rashness in the field contributed to the decision to give in to King Louis. Ten, even five years ago, Edward would not have accepted such a ‘Trader’s Truce’.”

  Anne looked down at the floor of the solar. The woven design of the hearth rug blurred in tones of red. “Why should it be called the ‘Trader’s Truce’?”

  “Because of the terms, Anne.” Richard’s voice was flat. “A commercial treaty in many ways. It is signed and sealed for seven years. The Bank of Medici holds the collateral, plus the mercantile. Edward even ransomed Margaret of Anjou to King Louis for fifty thousand crowns.”

  “Yet there is more, Richard. Something else pricks at you.”

  “The bribes, Anne. Louis called the money pensions but they were bribes just the same. Everyone at Court accepted Louis’ gifts. So you see, all the good will between France and England is nicely packaged in gold. England was bought like a bale of wool.”

  “And you?”

  Richard leaned back against the wall, his eyes half-closed. “I dined with Louis in Amiens. He offered me bribes too. Presents of plate and fine horses. He can be charming. But I refused, and the charm vanished. He hates not having his own way. He talked to me as though I were Edward’s heir.”

  “Because he wants to control you, Richard. He wants you as a pensioner to bind you as well. How did it all take place?”

  Richard sadly revealed the scenario. “In late August, at Amiens, Louis, as often before, did the unexpected. The city gates were flung open to Edward’s men. Food was abundant, the bounty of France. An amazing number of pretty, young whores took any chill from the night. Wine flowed freely..

  Then, after preliminary agreements between ambassadors of the King and Louis, the two kings met at the center of a special bridge some of the soldiers had built over the Somme River, at the village of Picquigny. Edward wore a cloak of gold, lined with red satin, made for a triumph in France. Louis was dressed in some drab outfit, like a small tradesman. And his adviser, Phillippe de Commynes wore the same,” Richard chuckled dryly, “to confuse any would-be assassin.”

  “I thought de Commynes was a Burgundian.”

  “So he was, Anne, but being a clever fellow, he’s now a Frenchman and Louis’ chief counselor. It seems Loyalty is an inconvenient virtue in his world. So the two Kings met on the bridge at Picquigny, one splendid and one shabby, and with their hands on a piece of the true cross, signed a treaty. And the shabby one bought the splendid one.”

  “Yet there is peace, Richard.” She searched for words of comfort. “The women of England do not weep tonight. Their sons and husbands come home whole.”

  “True, Anne, but why didn’t we make an alliance with France long ago, if that was the goal? Why march to take bribes?”

  Anne pulled her robe tighter about her. It was late; there was chill in the air. “Perhaps time will show that Edward will be not so sullied by this. Someday his actions may seem wise and more fortuitous.”

  Richard lifted her onto his lap so her head could rest on his shoulder. “Yes, time usually changes one’s perspective. But it won’t change what has happened.” He held her close as the candle sputtered out in a pool of wax. To him the act represented the light that was fading from his England because of a war that was not fought, and a King that put expediency before honor.

  III. CHAPTER 5

  The previously warm summer was swallowed up by cold winds from the north. And in Middleham, as well as Richmond and Sheriff Hutton, the effects of the “Trader’s Truce” reflected the turmoil developing in the south. Men were turning to crime; robbery was common even between the poor. The people who paid for the war with their taxes didn’t share in the flow of gold from France. The King journeyed over England with his judges; restoring order, executing malcontents who broke the peace, instantly hanging any man found guilty of theft or murder. England reeled and then grew quiet.

  To the common people, the “Trader’s Truce” meant that trade, and the wealth it created, began and ended at Westminster. Rumors scoured the land. It was said that the Queen’s apartments were being hung with cloth of gold, and the King was building a chapel to St. George at Windsor Castle with no thought of price. The King even minted a new coin, the Golden Angel, but it was seldom seen by any but the favored. Gossip also had it that the King had taken a new mistress named Jane Shore, wife of a prominent goldsmith.

  Angrily, Richard fought at least to restore hope and bring justice to the North. He was aware that wealthy landowners were evicting poor tenants in order to convert land to pasture. He witnessed starving faces and dead bodies, so hastily buried that they drifted to the surface in pieces. Older citizens were wasting away because they were giving up food for the children. Dogs and cats disappeared. A last resort for food.

  Summoning his able secretary, John Kendall, he declared his solution to the misery, crime and injustices. “I’m establishing a Council of the North, Sir John. Through the Council, we will provide justice to all, rich or poor, landlord or tenant, baron or peasant. No dispute will be too minor to arbitrate. And we will provide a Court of Appeal for any poor man’s petition.”

  Kendall was moved by the scope and sincerity of Richard’s plan to help him govern and bring order to the North. “Wonderful, my Lord. And whom do you propose to assist you in this endeavor?”

  “To start, we can rely on Scrope, Parre, Lovell and Metcalfe for judicial decisions. Ratcliffe and Tyrell can handle military and other matters. Others can be called upon later, as needed.”

  “We will surely improve the situation with this bold move, Sire, but what of the authority of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland? You are Master of the East, West and Middle Marches, but Percy will have to be dealt with.”

  “True, Sir John. However, the King has given me complete authority over the Earl. Nevertheless, I have promised the King to respect his rights. So I intend to consult and inform him on all matters to keep harmony in Yorkshire and all the North.”

  Slowly, unbelievingly, contentment, order and prosperity returned to the North. In York, the people boasted that their Duke had taken no bribes from King Louis. In addition to his administering of justice through his Council, Richard was also busy securing peace at the Scottish border and seeing to fortifications. He became widely loved and respected by the citizens of York which soon developed into a city second only to London. It became a center of trade and worldly acclaim. To all, Richard had become their Lord of the North.

  While Richard strove to right great wrongs with his Council, Anne worked to improve conditions at Middleham, Sheriff Hutton and the surrounding area o
f Wensleydale. With numerous, heavy keys dangling from her waist, she supervised servants and workers, settled arguments and tended demanding duties as Duchess. With Richard’s help, she secured permission from the King to hold two fairs in the region each year to encourage trade and provide much-needed employment.

  On All Hallows’ Eve, Anne sat in the Presence Chamber with Nan Lovell. Richard and Nan’s husband, Francis, had gone to York to attend to some disturbances.

  The servants had brought in hazel branches and were busily fastening them across the doors and windows to keep out the witches and goblins infesting this night.

  She turned to Nan who, being pregnant, reclined indolently in the most comfortable chair. “You should be in bed.”

  Nan yawned, listening to the wind. “I’m waiting to see a goblin.”

  Anne stretched and stood before the fire. “Be careful one doesn’t get you,” she jested. “Though in this forest of hazel withes we should be safe. Nan, I hear there’s a new fortuneteller come to the fair. ‘Tis said the old woman carries a cane and goes tapping about, crying for the earth to open up and let her in--like the old man in Chaucer’s tales.”

  “I have never had my fortune told,” Nan said, half asleep.

  The Duchess studied the palm of her hand. “The King, you know, is forever consulting his astrologer.”

  Nan shook her head ruefully. “We can’t afford an astrologer. They and their spangled robes are very costly. Francis and I must just blunder along without benefit of foreknowledge.” She grinned. “And we muddle through quite nicely.”

  “It would be fun, a lark, to have our fortunes told, Nan. I could get John Gatling to go with us. Possibly a squire or two. We’d wear plain clothes so the old witch wouldn’t recognize us.”

  “Everyone will know you, Anne.”

  “Of course, just so this fortune teller doesn’t. It would be an adventure. Not that I believe in such foolishness. But if you feel well enough, let us go.”

  “The old hag might put an evil eye on my baby.” Nan smiled as she spoke, but her voice was unsure. “Francis would be angry. I best not.”

  Anne had already taken down a hooded cloak from a wall peg. “You’re right, Nan. You carry a child and needs be careful. Perhaps the old seeress will tell me when I’ll have another babe.”

  “You don’t truly believe in such fancy? Why put your faith in some poor crone who only wishes to be gobbled up by the earth?”

  “It’s not that, Nan. I’m curious. Surely, no harm can come of it.”

  Nan shook her head and settled back in the chair. “It’s windy for such an escapade. Take Gatling and some stout armed men, and be careful.” She looked up almost shyly. “You might ask this hag prophetess about my fortune.”

  “I will report every word the old witch mumbles. If I’m promised another child, the hag will have silver in her pocket this night.”

  III. CHAPTER 6

  Ann’s spirit of curiosity changed to uncertainty as she and her small retinue approached the village. Riding with her were John Gatling, two squires, and her maidservant, Phillippa, whose mouth was set in firm lines of stern disapproval. The familiar terrain was different at night. The slope to the village was, somehow, steeper. The wind was biting cold and full of smoke. Cottages were squat on either side, like crouching beasts, and the elm trees writhed in the wind and bent down clutching at them. The autumn rains had left deep holes, still filled with water and mud. As soon as they had left the elevation of the castle, the horses began to flounder, though stones and branches had been placed where the mire was deepest. The light from the lamps they carried was fitful. Many times Anne’s horse pulled hoofs up from the sticky mud with a sucking sound. Everywhere there was the acrid stench of smoke borne on the gusts of the night’s devil wind.

  Phillippa clutched her skirts about her, murmuring the Pater Noster and addressing frantic pleas to St. Joseph, protector of carpenters, and hopefully, their wives. When a tree caught at her she pleaded: “We should go back, Lady. ‘Tis not fitting. Baleful things are about.”

  “It’s folly,” Gatling interjected, agreeing with Phillippa. His hand tightened on the dagger at his belt. “We’ll be lucky to see All Saints’ Day on the morrow.”

  “The fortune teller might be a witch, Your Grace.” The older of the two squires shouted above the wind.

  Anne laughed. “Then all the village is bewitched. See there.”

  In the central market place, a great smoky fire blazed, the flames dancing wildly in the wind. Around the fire, most of the local children sat happily eating apples and nuts. An old man with a pipe, and two broad-faced fellows with gitterns, leaned comfortably against the poles of a tent in the clearing and played squealing music, their faces red with exertion and cider. About two dozen villagers were dancing themselves breathless in the leaping firelight. Above it all, the church bells clanged in frantic rhythm, as if rung by prankish demons.

  With surprise, Anne saw the cook Tom Benton’s barrel-shaped body moving lightly as he kept pace with a curly-headed girl, young enough to be his daughter. His thoughts were obviously far away from his kitchen.

  “They should all be home and saying their prayers,” Phillippa snapped. “Sakes, I was never so.”

  Anne didn’t answer. She wished she could dance with the rest of them. Curse dignity. She slid off her horse and stood at the edge of the fire. No one had noticed her yet. Her foot tapped in rhythm to the music.

  “My Lady, what do you here?” Tom Benton bowed. His face red, and his breath came in jerks from the exhaustion of dancing.

  The Duchess put a finger to her lips. “Shush, Tom. Go on with your dancing. I came just for a lark.”

  Others were now staring at her, wide-eyed, and she smiled and waved. No use to pretend now. Anne again put a finger to her lips in the gesture of silence and, dragging the trembling Phillippa with her, crossed the space beside the giant bonfire to the fortune teller’s tent, its purpose announced to all by the moon and stars painted in cracked silver on the curtains.

  Curious, but determined not to show any unease, she parted those curtains. There was darkness, pinpointed by candles, and the sharp aroma of incense. Phillippa sneezed violently.

  “Wait outside,” Anne whispered, amused, and shoved the shaking Phillippa back through the tent flap. The seeress sat at a small table. Behind her, on a painted screen, were the usual cabalistic symbols plus the twelve signs of the zodiac, showing a dominant, long-tailed Scorpio. On the table burned the incense pot, filling the room with a blue haze of otherworldly vapor. But the woman, who’d risen as Anne entered, was dressed simply in black with neither a mystical amulet, sparkling tinsel geegaws, nor any outward props to assert her claim to prognostication.

  The Duchess swallowed. There was an earthy odor in spite of the incense, the smell of a dingy stable combined with human uncleanliness; the woman’s face, though half shaded by the hood she wore, was the color of old bone. The crone might be leprous. Anne stepped back, but the woman, at the same moment, pushed aside the hood to reveal a whole enough face, though too pale to have known sunlight.

  “I wish a fortune told.” Anne put two coppers on the table, not getting near the prophetess. “It’s for a friend of mine, Nan Fitz Hugh Lovell. Can you tell her future?” She suddenly felt skeptical and very foolish. No doubt all the people of the village wondered what she was doing here.

  Lovell? I see nothing. The crone sat down on the stool behind the table, resting her head in her hands. “All I see is death, but he’ll not take me.” The Duchess placed another copper on the table.

  “Lovell. Again, all is blank and dark.” The woman added some more incense and the pungent fumes made Anne’s eyes water.

  “Wait.” There was authority in that word. “There’s a room, a small room. A man sits there. He sits for a long time. God! For two hundred years. Nay, the spirits must be disturbed tonight.” She shook her head wearily and looked up. A hint of pleading came into her old voice. “If I could touch your h
and, but for a moment, lady, then I could truly tell your fortune. I’m no cheat. I see time. As others know the past, so the future’s shown to me.”

  Anne hesitated, then shrugged. It would be something to tell Richard. The babble concerning Nan, or was it possibly Francis, had meant nothing. She added a silver half-groat to the pile. “Well then, old woman, here is my hand. Now what see you?”

  The withered crone briefly touched the extended fingers. Richard’s emerald, long ago fitted with a smaller inner band, glowed in the dark. Well, the hag would know her now. A glowing premonition, after a suitable interval of communion with the spirits, was inevitable. No doubt it would cost a bit more silver before the visions were completed.

  “Lady, you’ll have wealth, happiness, and a husband in high rank. Ah, you’re very fortunate. The stars smile on you. All conjunctions are favorable....”

  “And you’re saying what you think I’ll pay for?” On impulse, she leaned forward extending her hand again. “Touch my hand once more, soothsayer, and see if you can do better.”

  The woman laid her hand across Anne’s so that the palm and fingers matched. “Truly, I do see what no one else can. Believe me, lady. I was born so. It’s a curse.” Suddenly she drew back, her hand lost in the folds of her gown, her eyes dilated. “Your Grace,” her voice cracked, “I saw you with a crown.”

  “You mean a coronet.”

  “A crown. Your Grace, it was you, you were very thin. Ah, forgive me. You wore a crown.”

  “Well, what else? Where was I? What had happened?”

  “London. And there was blood everywhere.” The creature wept. “Death passes me by for fairer prizes.”

  Anne stood there stunned, and then understood. The soothsayer was somehow getting a message for Isabel through her. There was Clarence with his royal obsession, Isabel’s frailness. The Duchess put down another piece of silver. “I think you speak of my sister.”

  The crone rocked back and forth. She didn’t seem to see the money. “Lady, it was your hand. Your fate. Even the sun faded from the sky.”