Virgin Widow (17 page)

‘It was all for nothing, wasn’t it? I betrayed my brother, broke my oath given before God to be loyal to my King. And for what? What have I achieved? Nothing.’

There was no reply anyone could make in denial.

I had all but stretched out my hand to the latch on the door when, without warning, it was flung back to thud against the wall. Dramatic to the last, Margaret of Anjou stood on the threshold, the Prince a step behind. She strode into the room to come to an
abrupt stop close before the Earl, eyes feverishly searching his face.

‘I have been persuaded. Very well, Monsieur de Warwick. I will agree. My son will wed the girl.’

‘Your Majesty! I am honoured! You have all my gratitude.’ Showing no surprise at this reversal in his fortunes, the Earl bowed, hand on heart.

Margaret continued, driven by some strange emotion. ‘Don’t thank me. It is against all my better judgement, but I am led to believe that I must.’

‘Our alliance will restore Lancaster.’

‘That is my one hope. I pray for it every minute of every day. But one thing I will not allow.’ Her features hardened further. ‘I will not allow my son to accompany you on the initial invasion.’

I saw my father stiffen. ‘Surely that is our strongest weapon, your Majesty—to show Prince Edward of Lancaster to the nobility of England and give them a figurehead for their allegiance.’

‘I will not allow it. The Prince will travel to England with me, once the invasion is begun and victory is secure. Once Edward of York’s hold on power is destroyed. Then the Prince will take his place at the head of the troops, in his father’s name. That is my final word on it.’

She extended her hand, stiffly gracious. Allowed my father to salute her fingers. If she felt any distaste over the contact, she mastered it admirably. As did my father
in accepting the Prince’s absence. Removing her hand from my father’s hold, Margaret held it out to me.

‘Come here.’

I obeyed. Stood before her.

‘I do not choose you as wife for my son, but I must accept that the enemy of my enemy must become my friend.’ Her lip curled as if she would accept no such thing. ‘Let us hope you can learn to bear yourself as a princess. My son has been raised from the cradle to know that he is Prince of Wales. Edward!’ Imperiously she called to him. ‘Come and meet your bride. She has become the key to the door that is England, the route to your throne, so it seems.’ She regarded me with an uncomfortable intensity that lacked even a vestige of tolerance. ‘Here is your bride, Edward.’ She joined our two hands with hers, enclosing mine within her son’s and her own, small and soft, yet strongly binding, making us both the prisoner of her will.

I tried not to pull away, not to squirm in discomfort at what I read in her face—that I was not more attractive, that I was a despicable Neville. Whatever she thought of me, the deal was made. I was now the betrothed of the Prince of Wales.

‘My Lady Anne.’ Margaret had released us and Edward brought my thoughts back to him with the firm pressure of his fingers. ‘Allow me to say how fortunate I am to win so charming a lady as my bride.’ He lifted my hand and kissed my fingers with cool
lips, his eyes never leaving mine. More green than brown in the candlelight, they were bright, his smile warm and reassuring. He did not hate me. It made the leaden lump of anxiety beneath my heart ease a little. ‘I think Lady Anne will make me the perfect princess,’ he remarked.

‘We shall see.’ Margaret’s stare raked me from head to foot. I shivered inwardly. ‘I would speak with you tomorrow. Come to my chambers, in the afternoon. We must become acquainted.’

It was not a thought to encourage a night of restful sleep.

I
PRESENTED
myself at the apartments of the Queen, Margery beside me in self-important attendance at the insistence of my mother. ‘You’ll need some Neville support in that rabid den of Lancastrians. If I do not accompany you, Margery must.’

I wondered what my father would say if he knew that his Countess was so little won over to our new political allegiance. I suspected that my mother’s heart would remain Yorkist to the end. As for my own, I was not entirely sure, but I valued Margery’s solid presence at my side. Dry mouthed, belly queasy, I braced my shoulders as Margery knocked on the outer door, her lips suitably downturned in disapproval.

‘This is not the marriage I would have chosen for you, my lady,’ she hissed once again in my ear.

‘Nor I.’ My nerves leapt like a pot of eels. ‘But the Prince is kind and handsome…’

Margery frowned at my easily won admiration.
‘Handsome? Maybe he is. And a dammed Lancastrian, son to the Angevin vixen!’

‘Hush.’ I scowled at Margery’s viciousness. At least my mother had the tact to keep such thoughts to herself.

The door was opened.

The lady-in-waiting, Lady Beatrice as I was to discover, tall and angular with sharp features and as forbidding as her mistress, ignored Margery and looked through me as if I did not exist as she opened the door wider and waved us forwards. ‘Her Majesty is waiting,’ she stated, leaving us to find our own way.

So I had been found wanting by at least one member of the Queen’s household. How dare she overlook me in that manner! I lifted my chin. Strode forwards through one reception chamber after another, beneath the anonymous painted gaze of past kings and ancient dignitaries, towards the partially open door, my mind on decorous outward show despite the rebellion in my heart. Under my mother’s instructions, I had dressed carefully, a plain veil with a simple filet, without ostentation or exuberance. The Queen could not take issue with my demeanour. But what would be her mood today? I raised my chin another inch, my mother’s advice in mind.

‘Be respectful, mind your words. But be honest. And never forget that you are a Neville.’ Then she had added, caustically for her, ‘She should be glad to get such a bride for her son, an untried, pretty youth who
has no kingdom and no hope of getting one unless your father takes a hand in the game.’

So my heels struck the stone paving with authority as I marched forwards, only to come to a halt in the partially obscured doorway, hearing voices within. My presence went unobserved. Which was indicative enough of the force of the exchange of views within, the venom in one of the voices at least.

‘It is my wish, madam, to accompany my lord of Warwick to England immediately. And I will do it, with or without your permission!’

‘You will not. I forbid it.’

Prince Edward prowled to the window, moving out of my line of sight, and back again to take up a determined stance before the Queen who sat where the light from the window could fall on the needlework on her lap. ‘In my father’s absence
I
should lead the troops into battle.’

‘My son!’ The Queen folded her hands neatly on top of the linen as I saw her struggle for patience. With her son, she had a care. ‘You have no experience in the field.’

‘I have the heart for it!’ Although I could not see the imprint of temper on the Prince’s face, I could hear it in his reply. ‘What I lack in experience I will make up for in dedication. I am trained in all matters of warfare. It’s more than time I saw battle and put my skills to good use. Richard of Gloucester is little more than a year older than I and
he
is Constable of England.’

‘I know. And so you shall.’ Margaret leaned forwards and would have touched his arm, but he pulled sharply away. ‘Have I not brought you up to fight for your inheritance? But not until victory is in our sights.’

‘So why not let me go? Why do I have to wait? I am no child to be wrapped up and cosseted, kept here in silks and velvets whilst others take on my duties to my kingdom.’ I could almost see the passion begin to heat beneath his skin, his features tight with a fierce intensity. Again he could not remain still, but marched the length of the room, flinging his arms from his sides as if he would engage in immediate combat with his enemies. ‘Spawn of York! I would tear them limb from limb. How I managed to keep my hands from Clarence’s throat when he approached you…! I would punish him and his brothers for their misdeeds until English soil is red with Yorkist blood. I’ll have them executed on the battlefield for daring to lay hands on my father. Every last one of them—dead, despoiled, their bodies cast aside in the mud for Lancaster to trample.’

He flung back to stand once more before the Queen. ‘Do you remember when you had the heads of their father and brother—York and Rutland, as well as Warwick’s own father—spiked on the gate of York for all to mock and wonder at? So I would impale the quartered bodies of the rest of that thrice-damned family on the gates and bridges of London. King
Edward as he styles himself. Clarence. Gloucester. Edward’s misbegotten children with the Woodville woman. What a victory that would be!’ His voice fell to a plea. ‘Let me go, I beg you. My father would place me at the head of his troops without question. Why will not you?’

I sensed Margery slide a glance in my direction, but refused to meet her eyes. I knew what she was thinking—it mirrored my own line of thought. Unease slithered beneath my skin at such a show of uncontrolled temper, even as I understood the reasons for the Prince’s rage. The insecurity of life in exile, the constant wearying anxiety over what the next day would bring, had taught me much. Yet such vindictiveness shocked me.

Queen Margaret remained unperturbed, and adamant. ‘Edward, it must not be. You must become a cunning politician as well as a good soldier. If I allow you to cross to England in the first line of invasion, what would happen to our cause if Warwick betrayed us? What if he handed you over to Edward of York as a symbol of his goodwill towards his old master, as a hostage in exchange for York’s forgiveness? What a bargaining counter you would be. I don’t trust Monsieur de Warwick and neither should you. As for that creature of York who holds your crown, he would clap you in the Tower beside your father whilst Warwick returns to power at his side. Do you think
I would risk that? Until the Yorkists are overthrown, I will not. I don’t trust our Neville ally.’

‘Nor do I,’ the Prince shot back. ‘But I still say it would be a grave mistake to allow Warwick to go back alone and consolidate his own power. Men who oppose York will flock to
his
banner. They should flock to
mine.’

Now the Queen gripped her son’s arm, resisting strongly when he would have stepped back, and she pulled him to his knees beside her chair. Although she lowered her voice it was still perfectly audible in the quiet room. ‘You are all I have in whom to put my hopes. When York is deposed and your father released to wear the Crown again, only then shall we return. And I will be at your side to rejoice at our victory.’

‘But none of the glory will be mine. It will all be Warwick’s, and I shall be bound to him by chains of obligation,’ the prince spat with petulant temper. ‘As for this damned marriage…’

Every muscle in my body tensed.

‘Quietly, my son,’ Margaret murmured. ‘Nothing is yet certain.’

‘Once the Bishop has pronounced the blessing of Holy Church over our union, I shall be committed to this girl whether Warwick succeeds or not.’

‘Not so. Do you think I have not thought of that? I have a plan…’

This time Margery and I definitely exchanged
looks. Margery’s thick brows rose, her lips parted as if to speak. My hand closed on her fingers like a trap.

‘What are you planning?’ the Prince demanded. ‘Tell me!’

How similar they were, mother and son, in the little cameo before the sun-washed window. Hawk’s eyes, fierce and bright. Neat, even features now lit with inner convictions, even brighter than the intrusive sun, that success was at last within their grasp.

‘Not yet. It is too soon,’ murmured Margaret. ‘You must learn patience.’

And I saw the Queen smile at her son. I watched as she lifted a hand to brush her fingers through his hair. For good or ill, there was a bond here. All the Queen’s hopes were placed on the shoulders of this young man and he was content to have it so. And I knew, with terrible foreboding, that any woman who became a part of that relationship would not find it easy to dislodge Queen Margaret’s dominance from her son’s life. Mine would be an uncomfortable marriage. I shivered at the prospect of being caught up in this three-cornered union.

Margaret drew the Prince closer, smiling down into his face. What mother would not love so beautiful a son when she had lost all else?

Unaware, I must have moved. I saw Margaret’s hand grip Prince Edward’s wrist tightly as her head turned towards the door. So did his. I waited, breath
held, to see how they would receive this unwanted intrusion. Lively emotion still burned in the Prince’s eyes.

His reaction was immediate, supremely comforting, amazingly gratifying.

‘Lady Anne.’ Rising quickly, gracefully, without embarrassment, he swung across the width of the floor, to fling back the door, to bow, to take my hands in a light clasp and to kiss my cheeks, causing me to flush vividly. His smile was warm, hospitable, as if he could envisage nothing better than to spend some time in my company. As his hands continued to hold mine, I could feel the heat of them warming my blood and my face.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. His head tilted, lips smiling. ‘I didn’t know you had come. I’ve been taking up your time with madam, the Queen.’ The familiar perfume from the library, the sweet overtones of frankincense, teased at my senses, until as before the base notes of something entirely unpleasant made my nose wrinkle.

I curtsied, tentatively. ‘I would not interrupt, my lord.’ And as his smile widened, encouraging me to respond, I found myself smiling in reply.

‘A good thing you did interrupt,’ he remarked, drawing me forwards into the room. ‘As my lady mother will tell you, sometimes I am too bloodthirsty for my own good. Being inactive does not suit me and I wish beyond anything to have my feet planted on
English soil. Impatience sometimes draws me into words that I might wish unsaid when in a cooler mood.’ He laughed, a low, attractive sound. ‘Her Majesty tells me it is the extreme emotion of youth and I will benefit from a few more years under my belt. Forgive me, lady, if I seemed too callous for your ears.’

The Prince’s candid self-deprecation was totally unexpected. It presented an instant appeal, magnified by his attractive features, now serious with his need for forgiveness. ‘Sometimes the pain of exile becomes hard to bear, and then I’m carried away with the emotion of it all,’ he explained. His smile vanished, a shadow crossed his face. And, knowing it to be true, my heart softened towards him.

‘Of course. I understand your need to return, my lord.’

‘As we shall. Together. You look in good spirits today, Lady Anne. Perhaps I dare hope that the prospect of our marriage has given you such a bloom of happiness. And the deep rose of your gown becomes you. A most flattering fashion.’

I flushed a deeper colour than the velvet at his compliment. ‘Thank you, my lord. Your kind words enhance my happiness.’

He leaned to whisper in my ear, a charmingly winsome gesture. ‘You must call me Edward, now that we are near betrothed. And now I’ll leave you. Perhaps we can meet in the garden and walk there when the evening is cooler.’

I curtsied again, wishing he would not leave, drawn by his serious and gentle treatment of me. It would surely smooth my audience with Queen Margaret.

But he left me to bear that burden on my own.

‘Come forwards!’

I obeyed. Experienced now in the ways of Margaret’s Court, and with a mind to propriety, I knelt before her, hands folded, eyes downcast. In truth my knees trembled, as my blood beat heavily, loudly in my own ears.

‘At least your manners are pretty enough,’ she remarked.

At least!
Outwardly composed, inwardly terrified, I kept my silence.

‘Sit beside me.’ She picked up the piece of intricate knot work that had earlier been abandoned and applied herself, glancing at me every now and then. Her fingers were small and skilled, deft in their movements. The work seemed to take all her concentration. ‘Do you embroider?’ she asked.

‘Yes, your Majesty.’

‘You read and write, of course.’

‘I do, your Majesty.’

‘I know that you understand my own language.’

I made no reply, deeming it unnecessary.

‘Can you sing? Dance?’

‘Yes. I can hold a tune. I can play the lute to better
effect.’ It pleased me that my voice remained firm under the catechism.

‘And I suppose you are skilled in the management of a household,’ she observed. ‘To oversee accounts, the efficiency of the servants and such matters.’

‘My mother has ensured that I am well taught, your Majesty.’

She made a few thoughtful stitches, her face expressionless, but antagonism seemed to flow from her to engulf me, wave after wave. Her calm stitchery was a mere façade.

‘Are you a woman yet, able to take on the full responsibilities of a wife?’

‘Yes, your Majesty.’ I knew her reference. My courses had already begun.

‘Hmm.’ Her glance was sharp. ‘You were betrothed to Richard of Gloucester, before your father’s change of heart.’

Now where would this conversation lead? ‘I was, your Majesty. The Duke of Gloucester was educated at my father’s home at Middleham. I have known him since I was a child.’

‘Is there any remaining attachment there, between the two of you?’

Why would this interest her? The match between us had been long abandoned. All I knew was that I must deny any
attachment.
In this delicate game of diplomacy I must tread with care. ‘No, your Majesty. There is none.’

‘Excellent! I want no distractions.’ She stabbed at the fine linen with her needle. ‘It will be your duty to bear a son. The whole inheritance of Lancaster rests solely on my son the Prince’s shoulders. It needs strengthening. He needs sons to his name. Your mother’s inability to carry a son does not fill me with optimism.’