By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (16 page)

“Anne, I promised that I would take care of you and I will. But you are not free to be my wife - and my marriage means no more to me than yours does to you. It suits me to marry Anne Neville and it suits her to become my wife. At least I hope she finds me preferable to the cloistered life of a convent. She will have her ladies and her own household, and she will be Duchess of Gloucester. But that is all. I love you.”

“But you will bed her,” said Anne, not wanting to think of him with someone else.

“I hope she will provide me with a legitimate heir. But you must not be jealous, for I will have to close my mind to thoughts of you and your husband too.”

“I will never let Edward Stanley lay a finger on my body,” vowed Anne. He didn’t reply and she knew that although he held her close and spoke of love, and although she carried his child, he would not refrain from Anne Neville’s bed once she was his wife.

After a while he laid her gently back on the pillow, kissed her cheek and left her to sleep away her grief. When she woke again she lay and thought about what he had said. She had always known that he would not marry her and would seek a rich heiress. So why should she be so surprised that he was to marry Anne Neville now that she was free? Perhaps she had been unfair to him, she thought. After all, he had brought her to Pontefract. If he had not cared for her he would have left her at Lathom.

She insisted that the servant who was set to watch over her help her to dress. Then she went down the steps to the hall on unsteady legs. Richard was sitting near the hearth, talking with Uncle Robert and Isabella. They didn’t notice her at first, but when Richard saw her he came quickly to put his arm around her and guide her to a chair near the warmth.

“You are still pale,” he said, caressing her cheek with his hand. Anne held it against her face for a moment then turned her lips to his palm and kissed it. She knew that she must be content to have him as her lover; she only prayed that he would not forget her after his marriage, and that Anne Neville would not steal his heart from her.

Snow fell heavily during January, but Richard seemed content to remain with Anne at Pontefract and displayed no desire to go back to London to his intended wife. He spent his days with his secretary, writing letters and dealing with the administration of his northern lands. At night, he began to come to her bed again, despite the raised eyebrows of the women who thought it wrong when she was with child. And although the coming baby numbed her physical passion for him, she was glad to have him close.

Anne Neville was not mentioned again and she put away Izzie’s letter. Yet when she woke sometimes in the early hours of the morning, her back aching from the heaviness of the baby, Anne’s thoughts were all of her namesake and she felt the pain of envy keenly enough to bring tears that she cried silently so as not to disturb Richard.

She knew that when the weather improved he would leave, but she hoped that before that happened their baby would be born - and she prayed that it would be the son he always spoke of. Even if she lost his love, the child would bind him to her.

As the days lengthened and the northern cold intensified, the leap year of 1472 promised an extra day of winter and Anne woke in the early hours of that Thursday morning with a tightening pain around the baby and an intense aching in her back.

“What’s wrong?” asked Richard, waking at her sudden gasp as pain struck her again. He sat up in the bed and pushed back the hangings to light a candle. “Is it time for the baby?”

“I think so,” she said, looking up at his rumpled hair and the smile of anticipation that played over his face.

“You are afraid,” he said, stroking her hair back from her face. “Don’t be.” He bent to kiss her forehead. “I have engaged the most reputable midwife, and I have a physician should there be the need. They will see the child safely born.”

“Oh!” called Anne as another contraction grasped her body. “Richard!” She grasped for his hand as he turned to pull on his clothes. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me!”

“I need to send for the midwife. Isabella will come to you.”

“But she knows nothing of childbirth. I wish my mother was here.”

“The midwife will come. She will not be long. Be brave.” He took her hand as he stood by the bed and looked down at her. Then he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Sweet Anne. I shall pray for you in your travail,” he said.

“The brooch,” she cried. “Bring the brooch.” He turned to find it in the small wooden casket he had given her to keep her jewels safe and brought it to the bed where he sat down and pinned it to her nightgown. Then his hand strayed to her stomach as he caressed her and the child and he kissed them both.

As another wave of pain surged through her body, Anne closed her eyes and didn’t see him leave as she prayed earnestly to Saint Margaret of Antioch that she would be safely delivered of the child, as the saint had been delivered from the dragon.

Isabella came to sit beside her and wiped her face with cool cloths. Servants were sent to fetch water, which was heated on the fire and, as the midwife prodded at her stomach and murmured in the corner of the room with her two assistants, Anne gave over the responsibility of her body to them and their superior knowledge. As her pain intensified the midwife pushed pillows behind her and helped her to sit up to ease the birth.

Anne had never known pain like it. Although the women who attended her rubbed her belly and back with fragrant ointments to ease the agony, she thought it was impossible to feel such pain and still live. She tried to make her peace with God, praying, amongst other things, for forgiveness for her unfaithfulness to her child husband, and she prepared to meet her death as yet another spasm of agony ripped through her.

Then she felt an uncontrollable urge to push the child from her body and as the midwife held her arm and encouraged her to bear down she panted and sweated in the overheated chamber and gradually the child was expelled from her - first the head, and then the body parted from her in a slippery rush and Anne gave thanks that she and the child were now separate beings.

“A boy!” the midwife told her as she scooped the baby in a cloth and wiped the blood and mucus from his face and nose.

“Let me see,” said Anne, trying to ease her aching, bleeding body up from the bed.

“A moment,” said the midwife and then Anne heard him cry as he took his first breath and one of the assistants tied and cut the pulsating cord that still attached him to her. The midwife bathed his tiny body in warmed milk and gave him a taste of honey on his tongue to soothe him before swaddling him in linen cloths. Then she placed him in Anne’s arms. He had a head of thick dark hair. His face was red and puffy, and his little mouth, showing pink gums, let out cries that belied his tiny size.

“Is he complete?” asked Anne, looking in wonder at the small person who had, until minutes ago, been within her own body. “Has he fingers and toes?” she asked.

“He is perfect. A healthy boy,” smiled the midwife as she ran a hand over Anne’s hair. “You were a brave girl. You’ve done well and you have a son to be proud of.”

The women delivered Anne of the afterbirth then washed her and put clean sheets on the bed. Isabella took the baby to show him to his father whilst they worked. Then he was put into the cradle, away from the light, and he was rocked until he slept and Anne, exhausted, leaned back and closed her own eyes.

She woke suddenly, unsure if it had been a vivid dream, but the pain and soreness as she moved confirmed that she had indeed given birth. She tried to sit up, anxious to see the baby, to hold him and know that he was safe. The curtains had been drawn around her bed and she pulled them back to look into the cradle. She felt a moment of panic as she saw it was empty. Then the figure standing at the window moved and she saw Richard, holding his son.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. “The midwife said you were exhausted and he was beginning to cry so I picked him up.” He looked suddenly anxious. “Did I do wrong?” he asked.

“No.” Anne smiled at the sight of them; the tiny baby nestling in his father’s arms and sucking at his little finger.

“He’s strong,” said Richard. “And hungry I think. Shall I send for the nurse?”

“No,” she replied as she eased herself up on the pillows and held out her arms for her son. “I will feed him.” Richard gave him to her tenderly and watched as she uncovered her breast.

“Have you considered a name?” he asked.

Anne looked down at the dark head and soft cheek as the baby gazed up at her with bluish eyes. Her finger traced his tiny, perfect ear and then smoothed down a tuft of his hair. She had thought about his name.

“I would like to call him John, to remember my father,” she said. Richard nodded and Anne knew that, for a moment, he too thought of Wakefield and the abhorrent events that had followed the battle there.

“John of Gloucester,” he said, and Anne felt relieved that he acknowledged this child as his own. Whatever happened, whomever he wed, no other woman would have the privilege of being the mother of his first born son.

Anne watched as Richard swung his leg over the back of the grey stallion and gathered the reins. The worst of the weather had passed. There were signs of springtime and he could not put off his return to London any longer.

He turned the horse in a circle, waiting for Uncle Robert and the rest of his household to be ready.

Anne shifted baby John into a more upright position on her shoulder as Richard drew rein beside her and he bent to kiss his son’s head in a last farewell.

“Take care of him, Anne – and take care of yourself. You will both be in my thoughts and prayers.”

Anne nodded, not able to speak. Every time he left it was hard, but this time was the worst. This time he was going away to finalise the arrangements for his wedding to Anne Neville and she had no idea when, or even if, he would return. His reassurances that he loved her and the baby, that he would take care of them and not forget them were all very well, but once he was in London would he really spare the time to think of her?

“Don’t cry,” he said as he circled the horse again. Anne looked up at him. The sun reflected off his polished armour and dazzled her so that she couldn’t see his face. She shook her head, not knowing what to say. She had told him, more than once over the last week, that she did not want him to go; a bittersweet week when he had made time to be with her and the baby; a week in which she couldn’t have asked more from him, but a week that she knew would end like this.

The horse shifted restlessly, pawing the ground with its hoof, wanting to be off, and Anne sensed that Richard felt a little of the same anticipation. She moved back from the horse as it trod near her, her hand shielding John’s head from both the sunlight and the animal. She watched as Richard glanced at the gathered horsemen and judged that they were at last ready to leave. He leant from the saddle again to kiss her mouth in full view of everyone as she raised her face to him in once last attempt to implore him to stay.

“I love you,” he said, then touched the horse’s flanks with his heels and as it sprang forward he rode out of the castle courtyard, his arm raised in a last farewell. Anne saw Uncle Robert kiss Isabella before urging his own horse after the duke. Isabella waved and blew him another kiss as he rode underneath the gatehouse. They were to be married as soon as Richard could spare him and Anne was afraid that she might lose her friend, even though Isabella had promised that she would remain at Pontefract for as long as Anne needed her.

Robert twisted in his saddle for one last look at Isabella. The last few weeks had been both sweet and hard. To have been free to spend so much time with his betrothed yet to have abstained from full knowledge of her body had been difficult. There had been times when his self-control had almost deserted him. And Isabella too, with her soft and eager kisses, had often parted from him so reluctantly he knew that it would not have taken much persuasion for him to be allowed into her bed. But the date of their marriage was still not set, the autumn wedding having been put off so that he could attend on Diccon in London.

As the overexcited horses settled to a steady pace, Robert eased the tension on the reins and relaxed into the saddle. It was a fine morning with a hint of good weather on the horizon where patches of blue sky were showing between the pale clouds. Beside him, Diccon rode with his face set into a stern expression and his eyes on the road ahead of them. He seemed disinclined to talk and Robert knew that he had found it hard to leave Anne and his baby son behind. Robert remembered how Isabella had come to the chamber where he had been keeping company with the duke during the birth. Diccon had jumped from his seat as if stung when she had come in with the baby in her arms. And the expression of bewilderment and pride as he had peered at the tiny, wrinkled face of his son was one Robert would never forget.

As soon as he had been able, Robert had bade the scribe write a letter to his brother James at Hornby to tell him the news – and he had pressed an extra coin into the hand of the messenger who would ride with it.

“Tell him that his niece and the child are both well and that he is baptised John of Gloucester,” he had instructed him, knowing that James would be well pleased that the duke’s son was named for their dead brother.

Anne went back into the castle. John was asleep in her arms, unaware that his father had gone away, and he didn’t wake as she took him up to the nursery and laid him down in his crib. He was a strong child who was growing quickly and Richard had never missed an opportunity to pick him up and toss him in the air to make him gurgle and laugh.

“Be careful with him!” Anne always told him, worried that he would let the baby fall.

“He’ll come to no harm. He’s a Plantagenet. He’ll grow to be an excellent horseman and a fearless knight. A blessed son of York,” Richard had said as he’d held the writhing baby high above his head. “I have great plans for his future.”

“Not battles,” she’d said as she’d taken her son from him and encircled the child in her arms, nuzzling her face against his soft dark hair. “I couldn’t bear it if he had to fight in battles.” She’d kissed John’s cheek and allowed his perfect little hand to grasp her finger. The intensity of her love for him frightened her.

“He will love to fight,” said Richard, watching them.

“Why must men fight?” Anne demanded with sudden anger as she realised that she would not be able to protect her son from harm forever.

Richard had taken her face between his palms and kissed her gently on the mouth.

“I fight to keep you safe,” he had said. “I’ve fought for the king, and for England and for St George. And now I will fight for my son and for you, Anne Harrington.”

A door slamming somewhere nearby disturbed her recollection and the raw emotion of loss rose from a place just below her ribs to her throat. She twisted the ring on her finger, as she had seen Richard twist the same ring on his own hand. It was fashioned from silver with a blue enamelled centre behind which was hidden a fragment of the true cross. He had pushed it onto her finger the day John was born and now Anne prayed that it would bring her hope and consolation in the difficult times ahead.

The next week her mood lifted when her mother came with her own baby girl, Dorothy, to visit her. She sighed and cooed over her first grandchild in adoration.

“Do you think it is wicked of me to have a child by the Duke of Gloucester when I am a married woman?” Anne asked her as they sat in the nursery and watched their children sleeping. She was still concerned that her mother disapproved of what had been done.

“If your marriage to Edward Stanley is not yet consummated it could be annulled. It is what your Uncle James desires, although Lord Stanley will not agree.”

“Lord Stanley would never agree,” sighed Anne, “even though he is very angry with me. He will not allow Izzie to speak of me or write to me – although she does write. Sir William sends her letters to me with his messenger,” she said, stroking John’s cheek as he whimpered and murmured restlessly.

“Izzie wants to leave Stanley House and go to the house at Melling,” her mother told her. “It would afford her and her husband more freedom. But your Uncle James is still holding that property as well as Hornby Castle, despite the king’s instructions to give it up. And he still has the support of the Duke of Gloucester.” She paused and gazed at the children for a moment. “The duke is not a man to be thwarted when he makes up his mind about something,” she went on. “And he is ambitious, Nan. That is why he means to marry Anne Neville. He will never be satisfied until he has wealth and power.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Perhaps not. He seems to care for you, and he has acknowledged the child as his. You could do well from it.”

“I’m not interested in profiting from it,” said Anne. “Why must women always think of how they can profit from their marriages, or their lovers?”

“You love him,” remarked her mother. “That’s a dangerous thing to do. Love brings heartbreak often enough.”

“You loved my father,” she replied.

“Too much,” said her mother. “Despite my present husband I still yearn for him every day. I see him in you, Nan, and sometimes I cannot bear to look at you because you remind me of him. I can see him in this baby too.” She glanced down at her grandson. “Your father would have been so proud - so proud that you are the mother of a Plantagenet and that you named the baby for him.”

“Richard thought it was a good name. He wanted to honour my father for giving his life for the Yorkists.” She paused. “Mother, what will I do?” she asked. “What will I do if I am forced to return to my husband? You know that the Stanleys will not allow me to stay here for ever. They want Hornby too much.”

“Yes, they mean to have Hornby. It has become a matter of pride that they defeat the duke and your uncles. And Lord Stanley is a dangerous man to cross. I fear for you, Nan. You will need to be careful.”

Richard returned in the summer as he had business on his northern estates. His household rode with him and suddenly the empty echoing chambers and corridors of Pontefract Castle were filled with strangers and noise.

“I am pleased to see you, my lord,” she said as his shrewd eyes looked her over with a smile of approval.

“You look well, and have regained your figure,” he replied, as he raised her hand to his lips. “How is my son?” he asked.

“He sits unaided for a time and takes some solid food.”

“Then soon he will sit on a horse and I will take him hawking with me.”

They went up to the nursery and Richard was pleased that John seemed to remember him. Anne watched as he lifted his son into the air and John kicked his legs and laughed as he grasped for the shiny boar badge that was pinned to Richard’s doublet.

That night he called an end to supper after the second course had been served and grasping her hand had taken her up the steps to his bedchamber. But as he led her from the table Anne noticed the smirking and winking from some of his retainers. She pulled her hand from his as she realised what they thought of her.

“Your knights and retainers look at me as if I am a common harlot. They speak of me as Gloucester’s mistress,” she complained to him, remembering some uncouth conversation she had overheard earlier that day.

He frowned as he dismissed all his attendants and closed the door behind them. Then he came to her and took her in his arms and began to kiss her. She resisted. She wanted to speak with him candidly about her position at Pontefract and what her future held.

She was beginning to feel a prisoner there as she had once been a prisoner at Hornby and she was worried about what would happen to her after his marriage.

“What troubles you, Anne?” he asked, as she pulled away from him.

“Do you need to ask? My sister writes of your marriage plans, yet you tell me nothing.”

“Don’t spoil these times we have together,” he said, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. “It is not a subject I wish to discuss with you. I have told you that I love you. Be content with that.”

Anne didn’t answer him. She doubted that she could ever be content unless she had the whole of him.

“Come to bed,” he said, taking her hand and kissing first her palm before moving closer again and kissing her neck. Silently she damned the Stanleys. If matters had been different he might have chosen her freely to be his duchess, though in reality she knew that he would never have exchanged Middleham for Hornby. “Come to bed,” he whispered again into her ear, and despite her misgivings she went with him willingly.

Next morning he woke early and got out of bed whilst she still slumbered in the warmth of their bodies. As he stood naked, she noticed that his spine curved slightly, making one shoulder seem more prominent than the other and giving him a slightly lop-sided appearance. There was not a portion of fat on him anywhere, just hard muscle and a scar on his right arm from a sword wound.

He pulled a shirt over his head and ran his slender fingers through his hair.

“When I have attended to my correspondence I think I will take a hawk from the mews and go hunting. Will you come? Or are you still afraid of riding?”

“I will come,” she said. She had been practising her riding skills under the tutelage of a stableman and become fond of the little dun mare that he had chosen for her. And although riding and hunting did not hold the same appeal for her as they did for Richard she would have agreed to almost any outing to keep herself in his company.

“And I will speak to my men - on the subject of showing you respect,” he promised. “I will not allow you to be insulted.”

The fine days of riding out to hunt songbirds and hares with the falcons jingling on their wrists, and the happy nights that followed, soon passed. When letters came from London that made him sigh in annoyance she knew that it would not be long before he left.

“Just for a while,” he said, but made no promise about when he would return.

The cause of his annoyance was revealed when Isabella received a letter from Robert Harrington some weeks later.

“Gloucester is disputing with his brother Clarence about the Warwick lands,” her friend told her as they walked in the garden. “Robert says that the rows are becoming so intense that men are considering wearing their armour to attend court. Apparently, Clarence became so infuriated with his brother’s demands for half the Warwick estates that he challenged him to a fight for them. But someone informed the king who intervened and made them relent, for the time being at least.” Anne frowned. She could imagine, all too well, Richard threatening his brother with a dagger and a sword.

“The king has promised to hear their cases in a court of law and says that they must abide by his decision,” said Isabella.

Anne wondered if Richard would still marry Anne Neville if the king ruled in favour of Clarence and told him that he could not have Middleham Castle after all. She felt a flicker of hope, but knew, deep down, that after Clarence’s rebellion, Edward would favour Richard in this matter.