Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  “Nonsense. I’m not going to be Queen.” Nevertheless, thoughts of a crown, the King, a child, and Richard, all linked silently in her mind.

  Wrapping herself in her robe, the woman lifted a wrinkled face and forced her creased, dry lips into a toothless smile. “Perhaps it was a coronet, lady. The seeings are often blurred.”

  “You’ve not told me much. Will I bear more children?”

  The soothsayer pushed back the pile of coins. “Lady, take them. I shouldn’t foretell tonight. Evil spirits are abroad.”

  “Keep the money. Buy yourself some food.” The Duchess turned in disgust and pulled back the tent flap, revealing the anxious face of Phillippa with Gatling hovering behind her. Anne felt lightheaded in the comparative clearness of the open air, though the bonfire still smoked. She shrugged and walked toward the waiting horses. “As I might have known, a charlatan, though I wager she believes her own visions. She said I was going to wear a crown.”

  “That’s not a matter for light talk, m’Lady,” Phillippa said stiffly. “You’d make a most gracious Queen.”

  Anne looked at her servant in amazement. Gatling and the squires were also serious and uneasy. “Well, then, the fortune teller guessed easily enough who I was and fancied I’d like such a prophecy, with just enough dismal foreboding to make it seem authentic. It’s a lark, nothing more. Let’s go home.”

  They rode back to the castle in silence. At the gates of Middleham, Anne turned to the men. “I can still hear the music. Go back, if you like.” The squires were off in a moment. Gatling assisted her down from the horse. “Such frippery is for the young folk, Lady Anne.”

  Anne nodded solemnly. “Yes. And next year I think I will wear a real disguise and be young again myself.” Though fearless before her escort, Anne was uneasy through the rest of the night, and the predictions of the fortuneteller haunted her dream.

  III. CHAPTER 7

  In December, 1476, Anne was summoned to Baynard’s Castle by a frantic messenger, his liveried jacket askew and cap clutched in trembling hands. With a flourish of bows he informed her that the Duchess of Clarence, who was soon to birth a child, wished to see her sister, the Duchess of Gloucester.

  Anne looked hard at the messenger. “Is my sister well?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace, I don’t know.”

  Richard was fastening the ties of his cloak. “I’ll accompany you, Anne.”

  She nodded. “All I can think of is Calais and that hideous ship. I’m so afraid. She has not been well.”

  “Sweeting, let’s see for ourselves.”

  It was a twelve-day journey, a long road marked with steps of growing urgency. They rode in spite of bad weather and fatigue. Travel weary and anxious, Anne and Richard arrived in the splendid entrance hall of Baynard’s, amid the elegance of marble and stained glass. Clarence, slightly drunk, greeted them with a tear-streaked face, his speech choked and blurred. “She has been absolved. God in heaven, she is blameless of any sins.” He looked at them blankly. “The babe has already been baptized with my name. Baptized the moment he was born. She would have it so.”

  “May I see her, George?” From the safety of Richard’s presence, Anne could feel pity for Clarence.

  “She asked for you, Anne. She knows she is going. Bishop Stillington anointed her some minutes ago. She shows no fear.”

  Anne ran past him up the stairs toward Isabel’s solar.

  Bishop Stillington knelt in prayer beside the door. Two doctors in long, black, academic robes stood by the fire with hands clasped behind their backs while they talked in Latin. It wasn’t their responsibility to attend Isabel. Birth was for midwives. If all went well, they would congratulate Clarence and most likely receive a generous fee.

  The curtains of Isabel’s bed had been pushed back. Small and delicate as a child, Isabel, with Ankarette standing by her side, looked at Anne from among the pillows. She seemed already beyond worldly care.

  “She is comfortable now, but the birthing was a long and difficult one.” Ankarette bent over her mistress trying to force some brandy between white lips. The midwife alternately crossed herself and applied compresses. Anne could see great stains of blood spreading on the sheets. Fighting tears, Ankarette never turned from Isabel. Her voice was full of anguish. “We’re losing her. Oh my sweetest Lady, dearest Lady, I have done all I could.”

  Anne took a deep, despairing breath. There was the scent of mint balm and herbs. The room was warm and quiet. Sunlight splashed onto bright tapestries. Very softly, she kissed her sister on the forehead. “I will take care of Margaret and Edward, Isabel, until you are better.” Anne tried to sound positive.” Your children and my Ned will make good playmates.”

  Isabel looked at her sister with recognition and accepting awareness. She touched Anne’s hand in a brief moment of communion. Taking a sip of brandy she raised herself slightly, held in the strong arms of Ankarette. “Have….a….good….life….Anne.” Each word was an effort. The bloodstains spread. Isabel strained to see the door where George stood. Richard, head bowed in the presence of this delicate death, waited with the Bishop. Isabel looked at her husband. Her lips shaped words, and her voice took form, weak, but so clear that Stillington, in the entrance, paused in his prayers for the dying.

  Isabel’s cry became louder, her body convulsed. “George!”

  George of Clarence flung himself down beside his wife, his face buried against her hair as her head rested on his shoulder. Kneeling, Anne could see her sister’s face, the absolute white purity of her countenance.

  “In His most loving mercy, may the Lord pardon you....” Stillington murmured.

  Isabel’s eyes cleared for a moment as though she heard the prayer, “God have mercy,” she said, and her head fell forward, the blonde hair covering George’s shoulder.

  Gently, Ankarette lay Isabel back on the bed and put the baby down beside her. Anne saw again the child she’d seen at Calais. “The babe died some minutes ago.” Ankarette gasped on her sobs. “I saw no reason to tell her.”

  Anne looked at the pale, panting midwife and the bland doctors. The sun still slanted through the windows. The fire yet burned in scented warmth, the hourglass had run only a fraction of its course while eternity passed by. She tried to get to her feet, but the room spun in bright dizziness until Richard put his arm around her. Unthinking, she repeated Isabel’s words: “God have mercy,”

  “It was a quick passing, Anne.” Richard’s own voice shook.

  “Sweet Christ, she was so young.”

  George still knelt by the bed, holding to Isabel’s flaccid hand, his body contorted with sobs, his face reddened in apparent anger.

  “Comfort your brother, if you can, Richard. He may become rash with grief.”

  “I can’t reach him just now, Anne. He is too grieved and his head is dimmed with wine.”

  Anne gazed down at her beautiful sister, who once had such bright hopes. The memories were an inrushing tide from their earliest days at Warwick and Middleham. They were of the same generation. They had married brothers. They were both known as “Of Warwick.” No more. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. Isabel had known little joy in her brief days, yet her face was childlike. A face of the utmost delicacy carved in pure alabaster. Oh Mother of God, now she would never come North and a get stronger. Never. Never.

  “We must accept the will of God.” Bishop Stillington tried to force Clarence to his feet. “In all things, there is only the will of God.”

  Clinging to his dead wife. Clarence glared at the Bishop. “God be damned,” he screamed defiantly. “This did not have to happen. A son and a wife both lost. Someone will pay.” Clarence was beyond reasoning. He glared at Ankarette and fled the room.

  After Isabel’s services, on the first day of the new year in 1477, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester moved into the sumptuous elegance of Crosby Hall, finished but six years previously by the wealthy merchant, Sir John Crosby. It glowed with the warmth of high windows, exquisite stone tracings, timbe
red screens, rich tapestries and the personal touch of the builder who had obviously copied from the Great Hall at Eltham Palace to supplement his own excellent taste.

  “We’ll be very comfortable here, Sweeting.” Richard pointed to the two fireplaces of the Great Banqueting Hall. “Warm and cosseted by every convenience. No more traveling for you in this weather.”

  Richard was concerned, even angry, because Anne had ridden for a day with Isabel’s funeral cortege. All in black, they’d moved across the land while white snow crystals stung them. At each village, the church bells tolled in rounds of twenty-five. They had hoped to go as far as Oxford, but had turned back after a day because Anne became chilled and feverish.

  Isabel was to be buried in a vault behind the high altar at Tewkesbury. It was a long journey. Tewkesbury was the heart of Clarence’s estates but so far from all Isabel had held dear. Yet it was at Tewkesbury that Clarence had re-established himself with his brothers by slaying Prince Edward of Lancaster. Those memories, coupled with Isabel’s death, pulled at Anne’s conscience.

  “Sweeting, come near the fire.”

  “Aye, in a moment.” She stared into the fire. “Such a long journey.”

  “Anne, don’t mourn so. I’m sure that Isabel would want to remember those happy days together.

  “Yes, I suppose life must go on.” She paused a moment.” We should bring Isabel’s children and Ankarette here from Baynard’s. Clarence will have no concern for them. Perhaps Ankarette will want to visit Layford, a place of her youth, before we journey north. She is heartbroken for the loss of Isabel.”

  III. CHAPTER 8

  The spring of 1477 had come unusually early to Layford, in Somersetshire. Ankarette packed her possessions to return to London. She was content with her visit. It had been kind of the Duke and Duchess to insist she come. She would go to Middleham with them now she’d done all she could for her deceased Roger. His grave had a fine marker and the priest in the small church had been paid to say Masses with a special observance each year for the soul of Roger Twynyho. So long ago. It was as though she’d known him in another life.

  The sound of pounding horsemen broke her reverie. Strange such a large group should ride forth so early. Uneasily, she lit a rush light and tried to peer through the small windows made of thin horn, but their opaqueness defeated her. She put out the light and began to bind her hair. No need to linger. In a few minutes it would be full morning. A horse and escort awaited her at the inn. She wet her lips and realized that her heart was pounding. God in heaven, but the horses sounded near.

  In growing fear, she pulled her cloak about her and looked around the small cottage, which she had briefly leased. Made of wattle and daub, with a planked door, it was a fragile shell. She clutched the beads about her neck. Men’s voices were all around the cottage. Fear soaked her body.

  The door kicked in. In the misty light she saw armed men, horses, and George of Clarence. He looked at Ankarette with the same hateful eyes she had seen at Baynard’s Castle.

  George was gloating. Ankarette was duly frightened, and rightly so, he reasoned. She was to blame for everything. He was convinced that she poisoned his wife. Why else would his Love have died? He advanced into the room. He had twenty men with him. They all came for sport. He grabbed Ankarette by the shoulders. “Witch, did you think I’d spare you? After you killed Isabel?”

  Briefly, there flickered through Ankarette’s mind, the realization that Clarence was insane. She faltered. Terrified, her voice croaked with dryness. “I loved Isabel. I would never have harmed her.”

  “You lie.” Clarence’s face contorted. “Everyone lies to me: my noble brothers, Anne Neville, the Woodvilles. You all think I’m an incompetent fool. The view will be clearer from hell.” Abruptly, his voice changed to a menacing tone. “Woman, learn what it is to gainsay a man who will be King someday.”

  “Mercy.” Ankarette gasped.

  The Duke called to his men. “There’s good sport here men. She’s no prize but what matter?”

  The men were upon her. She screamed and tried to pull away.

  More men held her. She could hear George of Clarence laughing as they ravaged her.

  She saw a dagger in a belt through her agony, and groped for it. She’d kill Clarence before she died, if she could.

  She couldn’t reach it. She screamed again. Clarence hit her, and the world became a place of spinning darkness. She felt herself drifting into welcome oblivion. “That’s enough sport for now men,” he cried. “I want to see her hanging by the neck.”

  Ankarette came to consciousness on horseback. “Bind her to the horse,” Clarence was saying. He saw she was awake. “We ride to Warwick for a trial. In Warwick, the Justices and jurors are my men. Pray if you can, murderess.”

  She did pray for long weary miles as Clarence allowed no rest. During the night she huddled in her cloak, holding her rosary, while two guards watched her and threw dice to pass the time. Barely tasting it, she drank the sour beer and ate black bread they gave her. The cold wrapped around her heart. She could feel wet, sticky blood flowing across her bruised body. She prayed for her death to be quick.

  Clarence came by once. She could hardly recognize him. His face was distorted, his eyes wild with rage. He hit her again, knocking out a tooth. Her mouth filled with blood.

  “Mercy,” she whispered hopelessly.

  “You deserve no mercy, witch.” He bent low over her. “You will suffer the consequences of your black art.” Ankarette didn’t answer. Even if this blood lust passed, it would be too late for her. She hoped he’d never get near Anne. She wondered dimly why the King let this dangerous brother stay a free man, but her thoughts didn’t linger on Clarence. She was going to die. She tried to compose her soul.

  In the fragile spring greenness of the Vale of Evesham, there was a morning mist in the air. Ankarette welcomed the moisture on her dry lips. By afternoon she saw the massive gates of Warwick Castle. The place of joy, Isabel had called it. Dear Lady, she’d join her soon, God willing.

  That afternoon, with her hands bound, she was dragged before the Justices of the Peace, assembled by Clarence.

  “The witch poisoned my wife and two infant sons. A murderess. I demand revenge.” The Duke’s voice was harsh, pounding in her head. None of the Justices even looked at her.

  “Revenge, gentlemen, for my wife, my sons.” He needed to provide no evidence for these Justices.

  Ankarette lifted her head. She was in great pain, faint from fatigue and hunger. “I’m innocent Sires,” she said. “I swear by our blessed Lord, I’m innocent.”

  Her pleas were futile. The verdict came quickly: Guilty, and the punishment was death.

  She heard church bells ringing as Clarence’s men pulled her along from the makeshift courtroom to the gallows. It must be Vespers. She wished she had her beads but they’d taken them from her. Pushed roughly to the steps of the scaffold, she turned before climbing and saw many she knew in the silent crowd. None dared speak, for Clarence’s men moved among them. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. She was too weak to care.

  She saw Clarence standing defiantly with feet apart, head high, his thumbs stuck in his belt. She looked away. Final resignation came. She put her foot on the steps, while her lips moved soundlessly. “Mother of God, be with me in this hour of my need.”

  She felt the rope placed about her neck and looked up at the gray sky. The bells clamored. God had sent her to care for Isabel and she’d done what she could. It was His will she stay no more.

  Ankarette glanced at the hooded executioner. “I forgive you,” she said, and the man nodded. In the distance, she could see the towers of Warwick Castle. In her misery, she felt an expectant joy. “God receive my soul.” Instead of the usual cheers at a hanging, there was an eerie hush as the trap door opened beneath Ankarette.

  III. CHAPTER 9

  Ankarette had been dead a week when the King summoned Richard, Anne and his mother, Duchess Cicely, to his private library.
They supposed the King wanted them to attend the marriage of his four-year old younger son, Edward, to the six-year-old heiress, Anne Mowbry. Such was the pretense. Among velvet-bound books, navigation charts, state documents and the opulence of Persian rugs and Arras tapestries, Edward faced them. He didn’t bother with a greeting. His manner was as curt as his summons.

  “I have some grim and disturbing news about George.” His voice was hoarse and filled with anger. “The past months he has been creating uprisings and engaging in sorcery and the black arts to bring about my demise. These things I have attributed to the effect of Isabel’s death and have taken no action against him. But his most recent exploit is unforgivable.” His features became strained and his body tightened. “He has taken the King’s Law into his own hands.” Grimly, he told of the abduction and hanging of Ankarette.

  Anne almost fainted at the telling of the horror. Her hands came up to her mouth to stifle a cry of disbelief. In her mind, she could imagine the scenes: the desperate pleas of Ankarette, the imperviousness of the Justices, the towers of Warwick rising above the scaffold, the terrible choking and ending of life. “Oh, Richard, this could have been my fate at the cook shop. I should have known by his reactions at Isabel’s deathbed that Anakarette was in danger. This is no less than murder.” She bit her lip, fighting back tears.

  “George must be out of his mind.” Richard’s voice was heavy. “Be it due to wine or grief, it is insanity.”

  The King went on more slowly. “When a squire reached me with news of its beginning, I sent a Writ of Certiorari, to stay proceedings. Before my messenger could have been well on his way, a second message was brought. No writ could help. George has been arrested and consigned to the Tower. I see no recourse except his execution for treason.”

  The Duchess Cicely, who had arrived in London only hours before, lost no time in formalities. Proud Cis had grown wiry with corded arms and throat in the last years. Her nose was more prominent, and her neck constantly flushed with red. Yet her voice was still rich and husky, and her eyes sparkled with life. Her long nails tapped on the table, while rings slipped about her bony fingers. With matriarchal authority, she faced her oldest son. “You must not consider such an action, Edward. Would you be damned as Cain?”