Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  Margaret Beaufort gave a faint sniff. “Isn’t the Earl of Lincoln the great-great grandson of the scribbling squire, Geoffrey Chaucer?”

  Elizabeth laughed, showing her black teeth. “At least the Earl has a legitimate line.”

  Margaret Beaufort arched a thin eyebrow. “The Beauforts were legitimized.”

  “Only as adults.” Elizabeth was still laughing. “A bit late to my thinking. And with the condition that they and their descendants couldn’t claim the crown.”

  Margaret smiled calmly. Her gray eyes were very clear. She understood the implication.

  Suddenly, Francis Lovell, Earl of Kent, was beside Anne. He carried the pointed Sword of Justice. “God be with you, Madam, and with those you love.”

  “Francis I’m filled with memories of every yesterday, yet my heart jumps about with tension over this moment. Nothing seems real.”

  Francis kissed her hand. “You will be the fairest of Queens, m’Lady.”

  Under the grandeur of his garment and the dignity of his new titles, Anne could see the boy she’d known so long ago. “Francis, you and Nan must know how Richard and I cherish you both.” She saw Buckingham motioning for Francis to get back in line. “Finally all appears to be in order. See Buckingham wants you in position. I’d wager the street vendors have sold out waiting for us.”

  “It’s worth the wait.” Francis looked quickly about. “Never was there a more splendid coronation, the realm is with your Lord husband.”

  Anne set her shoulders and slowly nodded. All the major peers of England, as well as the majority of the gentry, had assembled to do homage. The streets were crowded with citizens jammed together on tiered benches. She could faintly hear their lusty cheering already. “The cheering will mean much to Richard,” she said softly to Francis. “Listen, the trumpets and drums. The coronation begins.”

  III. CHAPTER 22

  At Westminster Abbey, a large, square canopy, with a bell of gold jingling at every corner, was centered over Anne’s head. Francis hastened to his place at the head of the procession. She saw the old Earl of Wiltshire assume his position directly in front of her, bearing the Queen’s crown, while Bishop Stillington, his face wrinkled with beatific smiles, walked on her left, the Bishop of Durham on her right. She heard the rustle of skirts of the ladies assembling behind her and saw, as it reflected the sunlight upon leaving Westminster Hall, the great elevated cross being carried into the Nave by a group of prelates at the head of the procession.

  Anne concentrated on the cross and slowly put one foot ahead of the other. She heard the tumult of acclaim and inhaled the breeze from the now-opened doors. A second drum roll answered renewed calls from the Hearalds’ trumpets. Still she looked only at the cross, holding to it. She could not see Richard, so surrounded was he by his nobles, and bright shapes of color having no identity as viewed from the back. She heard cries shouting “Of Warwick” and the more gentle, “God be with ye, Lady,” as she walked from the Hall, but she could distinguish no particular face in the blur of humanity. She wondered what Elizabeth Woodville thought; she must be able to see it all from the Abbot’s Quarters, her place of sanctuary. This was a bitter day for her. But Elizabeth Woodville had caused many bitter days for herself. Anne thought no more of the former Queen.

  With her hands clasped, she held visually to the great cross, moving unevenly at the head of the procession. Slowly, one step at a time, she walked toward the West Front of the Abbey. She was married there, she remembered with a kind of amazement. But the girl of that wedding day seemed far removed from her present self. A lifetime ago, the bells had rung for her and Richard. There had been many days of joy since their wedding. Today a new lifetime began.

  Anne lifted her head and smiled at the waving crowd. There was a burst of singing as she entered the coolness of the church. She continued barefoot on the carpet. She was to become Queen of England and wondered if her father looked down on her from heaven. Now almost at the altar, she looked again toward the cross as the procession filled the great aisle of the Abbey. This drama was the morality play of an age, and she would live on this stage until the day she died.

  Now was the time for full awareness. She was Anne Neville of Warwick, unique unto herself. This was her moment in eternity, part of the sum of her being. She hoped she would be a gracious and worthy Queen. Anne mounted the sanctuary steps while the organ music swelled and surged about her. An elation, a sense of being totally alive, filled her with newborn strength.

  She saw Richard had gained the sanctuary and moved toward the seats of estate in St. Edward’s Shrine behind the altar. Richard, her ultimate reality. Her heart took up a hard beating. Richard, Lord of the North, husband, Love. She walked toward him and stood at his side by the Confessor’s shrine. Only he heard her whispered words: “Our moment has come, my Love.”

  Richard led Anne to the marble seat. He bent over her, helping her with her gown. “Yes, Anne, treasured in our hearts forever.”

  The service began. The Abbey of aged stone was filled with the spontaneous beauty of music. The ghosts are all here, she mused, staring at the gold of Edward the Confessor’s elevated tomb. Behind the bright hangings and the splendid banners, she looked out to see them--all those great figures who had also come this way. Had they too known this exaltation? So many tombs. The Abbey was bright, filled with the radiance of colored light from the stained glass. This sacred place was the heart of England.

  The music was over. Richard and Anne approached the altar. They were bareheaded now, and naked to the waist for the Royal anointing. Richard’s tightly muscled back could be seen by all. Anne crossed her arms over her breasts, concentrating on the sacredness of this ceremony. Richard took the coronation oath, his voice low and sure. Bourchier, newly a Cardinal, bent stiffly in his ornate chasuble to anoint them with the holy chrism from the wide-winged, golden eagle, Ampulla, which held the precious oil. The Cardinal was old; his hands uncertain, the anointing slow. A collective sigh of relief filled the Abbey when he had finished and Richard and Anne were once more robed in clothes of gold. Slowly, Bourchier raised, then lowered, the crown of Edward the Confessor, and placed it on Richard’s head. Next, his blue-veined hands shaking, he bestowed on Anne a Queen’s crown of alternate crosses and pearl trefoils.

  With a crash of chords, the Te Deum rolled forth from the organ. Richard and Anne, now consecrated King and Queen of England, resumed their seats to hear the Enthronement Mass. She felt the weight of the crown on her head but it was not heavy. It had been a long time since she’d felt so strong.

  They took communion, the traditional ceremony, and listened to vows of loyalty by the premier nobles, before the organ sounded the recessional. Richard and his Queen left the formal robes of estate upon the dais and walked back amid cheers to Westminster Hall. She saw Buckingham, his face flushed with pleasure. Margery Howard was close by now, asking Anne in a low voice if she felt in need of a philter due to the long service. Anne shook her head. She felt wonderful. Pages scattered gold and silver coins among the crowd and all heard the repeated cheering. The vigorous voices of England.

  At Westminster Hall, Richard turned to Buckingham. “My Lady and I will retire to our private chambers for a while, Henry.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Buckingham was as exhilarated, as if he was the one who had been crowned. “I’ll have all in readiness at four for the banquet, as planned.” His smile encompassed the whole room. “Ah, it was magnificent!”

  “Yes, Henry, it was.” Richard placed a friendly hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. “We thank you.”

  Walking in the formal manner with her hand lightly resting on his, Richard and Anne retired to their newly decorated chambers at Westminster. The rooms, like the day, were elegantly splendid. She touched the inlay dressing table, the assortment of cut crystal bottles for unguents and cosmetics, the delicate gilded furniture from Italy, and the canopied bed, hung in emerald velvet with A and R embroidered in seed pearls. The room was scented with fl
owers. A place of delight.

  “Is it to your liking, Anne? We shall call this the Emerald Chamber.”

  “It’s beautiful. Truly fit for a King. And I, too, have a surprise. I told Jack o’ Parr to bring my gift here.”

  She rose and going to a silver wall peg on the far wall, lifted up a long, heavy, purple robe. It was embroidered with the insignias of the Knights of the Garter and the White Rose of York, over a lining of white damask.

  “I had Peter Curteys make it just for you. Poor man, he’s been so busy; but I think he managed it all perfectly.” She smiled a little shyly. “I drew some sketches, myself, of what I wanted.”

  “Anne, it’s most handsome.” Boyishly, Richard put the robe over his shoulders and stood before the long mirror. The crown, momentarily removed, he put on his head again and grinned at his reflection. “I feel very regal in this magnificent robe, Anne. I used to worry that I was the shortest of my brothers and the only one with dark hair. Now I feel tall enough to touch the sky.”

  A small frown of concern crossed his face. “Sweeting, I hope your crown is not as heavy as mine. St. Edward must have had the neck muscles of a bull to wear this for long. But I wouldn’t change it,” he added quickly, reverently, “nor the hard wood of the ancient throne. They’re part of England.”

  They were both silent a moment, listening to the renewed peeling of every bell in London, and the distant ceremonial firing of cannons. Anne took off her crown and looked at it. Four arches of wrought gold, indicating sovereignty, curved gracefully upward from the band of gold and velvet. Atop the arches, there was a large pearl shaped as an orb and on this a small cross-symbolized Christ’s dominion over the world. A Queen’s crown. “It’s not heavy,” she said slowly. “At least not today.”

  The day ended with the most elaborate banquet that Henry Buckingham’s fertile mind could devise. In the dark of evening, when all had been eaten, all toasts proposed, the lords of the realm gathered before Richard and pledged their fealty. Richard smiled and thanked them, an expression of longing and hope lighting his eyes. Then torches were lit and the King and Queen were escorted to their suite.

  Lying together in the darkness, no longer in splendor, simply as husband and wife, their thoughts wove the same pattern.

  “All is well, Anne,” he said softly. “I’ve no doubts that I have been accepted in good faith, perhaps even in love, as King.”

  She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but she knew his face was peaceful. “I believe that too, my Love.”

  “And in your heart, Anne? You’re content?”

  “More than content, joyful. And you? How do you feel?”

  “Humble, and unbelieving that when I sleep tonight, I will dream as a King.”

  PART IV

  1483-1486

  ONLY BY GRACE

  Thus thou loseth His love

  by uplifting thyself

  Ne’er haply, to enter, save only

  By grace

  The Vision of Piers the Plowman

  IV. CHAPTER 1

  Before setting out to see and be seen throughout England, in a journey called the “Royal Progress”, Richard made his first appointment as King. With great pleasure, he bestowed upon Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, the two powerful offices of Great Chamberlain and Constable of England. Richard had remembered well the results of slighting a Kingmaker. He also gave into the Duke’s custody, Dr. John Morton, his claws still clipped from Hastings’ conspiracy. Buckingham was charming, effusive in his gratitude. He offered to stay in London for the first days of the Progress and report to Richard later in Gloucester. This plan was approved.

  There were other appointments, too. John Howard, already wearing the silver lion insignia as Duke of Norfolk, knelt and became Admiral of England. Robert Brackenbury received the position of Master and Worker of the King’s Moneys and Keeper of the Exchange, as well as continuing as Constableship of the Tower. For Lord Thomas Stanley, there were no honors except the privilege of attending Richard on the Progress. It was safer to have Stanley with him after his part in the conspiracy.

  Two weeks after the coronation, Richard left London, accompanied by a large Royal entourage, for his journey of enlightenment, beginning with the South. Anne went to Windsor to rest and organize her affairs before going home. Margery Howard and Nan Lovell were with her. Nan virtually acted as the Queen’s secretary now, an expert at handling petitions and gifts. Aunt Cicely came by for a day, but otherwise they were left alone. It was quiet with the Court gone. A few gentlemen attendants hunted in Windsor Great Park, and the children of Isabel and Clarence romped from the Upper to Lower Ward under the careful watch of Phillippa. Little Margaret flew about like a tiny, scurrying bird, and her brother Edward plodded behind her. The girl talked all the time. The brother seldom said more than a “yes” or “no”, and rarely left Phillippa’s side. An unlucky star must have been in ascent at his birth.

  By intent, Anne went alone to the tomb of King Edward in Windsor Castle. All about her masons chipped and ground on the stone, which went into the partially finished ceiling. Already the fan vaulting reached skyward. Woodcarvers labored in the choir, fashioning their ornate and sometimes whimsical designs. They worked in Windsor Oak, and had only just begun. Lay clerks crossed back and forth to the Horseshoe cloister, which stood at the west end of the chapel.

  Yet, amid all the activity, Anne still felt alone. She gazed down at Edward’s tomb. Here rested the man who’d shaped the realm to his will. Everything had been his, and yet in the end, it was said he hadn’t cared to live on, and let the fever take him. The Woodvilles ruined all that mattered, destroying his dreams and sapping his vitality. Edward had been many personalities, and in his forty years, there were a dozen lifetimes crowded into one. She wondered if he would be pleased at Richard’s wide acceptance as King.

  Anne placed her hand on the tomb. The stone was cool. Somehow she felt Edward understood and approved. His last act on earth had been to leave everything to Richard. She believed he had meant that act to mean more than he could ever say. Anne crossed herself and laid a white rose on the tomb. “Requisat in pace Edward,” she whispered.

  The words drifted up to the gleaming vaulting. “I accept you as the anointed King.” Her lips barely moving, she repeated the allegiance given once on a Thames-side quay. She had accepted him, and thought of him now with sadness. Edward had not only been a kingly figure, he’d been a man with all the virtues and failings of the many selves within. And he had loved Richard. For a moment she had a feeling that his love transcended death, a sense of Edward’s nearness. Then it was gone. But the inner peace remained.

  That quiet peace was still with Anne when she joined Richard at Warwick Castle on August 8. The massive doors of the castle swung open, the twin portcullises creaked up and they rode together through the sixty feet of arched entranceway to the Inner Courtyard. She saw Caesar and Guy’s Towers. The Clock Tower cast its shadow over them. Richard planned to build onto Warwick to strengthen this already formidable castle. Anne looked at Guy’s Tower, remembering playing there with Isabel. She must go to the chapel later, she told herself. Her mother would want her to light candles for her father and sister.

  “What are you thinking, Anne?” Richard noticed Anne’s preoccupation.

  “Memories. Warwick Castle was more home to Isabel than to me.”

  “We will make it splendid again. No castle, not even Kenilworth, will be finer. When Isabel’s children come into their inheritance, they’ll be proud.”

  “So they should.” Every stone was part of her ancestors’ visions. Only the rush of the Avon River and the Celtic Mound were not of their creation. “It’s beautiful, I can see why Isabel stayed here. So enclosed and safe. I’d forgotten.”

  Richard helped her from her horse. “A befitting birthplace for a Queen.”

  “But I wasn’t Queen then. I’m told I was a noisy baby.”

  Richard’s arm was around her. “Anne, I didn’t take long to notice yo
u. I met you when you were but a tiny maid of four years. Do you remember?”

  She nodded. “You were eight and therefore practically grown up.”

  Richard laughed. “Our attendants yonder wonder what we whisper. State secrets? Scandalous gossip?” His face was bright. He looked better, younger, than in many months.

  “Why tell them? After all, if I whisper that I love you, why should I inform others?”

  “But you must promise to tell me again.” With a quick squeeze of her hand, he turned to greet the rest of the retinue, which included a number of his men from London, as well as the Spanish ambassador.

  That night in the tapestried solar, they came together in special sweetness. Warwick closed out the world. London was far away. The pressures of government were lost in the rapids of the river. She was surprised at the quickening of her own desire. She felt young, almost a bride, as he made the world a place of silken tenderness and joyous yielding.

  In the morning, they lay lazily in bed until the bells of the chapel forced them to wakefulness. Richard woke her fully with a kiss. “Anne, Sweeting, you look so young. Never would I believe you are twenty-six. Sixteen perhaps.” He kissed her hair. “Like springtime jasmine.”

  Anne ran her fingers across his chest. “Tell me about the Progress. All was tranquil?”

  “Yes, everywhere. I had a fine time at Oxford talking with the students. How they love to argue with their professors. Very lively. I bestowed gifts on a few professors and contributed to their food stores. Then I proceeded to Tewkesbury by the Severn route.”

  “Aye. Did you visit the tombs of Clarence and Isabel?”

  “Yes, I prayed beside the tombs. They are well kept. Joan Oldenhall sees to it. I also gave a gift of money to the abbot in memory of Isabel and Clarence. They have a piece of Isabel’s hair in a little glass case. Evidently, many come to see the tombs. They all speculate and gossip about how Clarence died.”