Virgin Widow (42 page)

‘I have missed you beyond measure.’ Such simple words, so few, against my throat to calm all my nerves.

At length Richard sat with a sigh whilst I poured him ale and he drank gratefully. ‘It was a long dry journey. The Welsh—’

‘Richard—I have fallen for a child.’

‘Ah…’ The rim of the pewter mug paused at his lips.
He put it down carefully, his eyes following his hand, lingering there as if he could see something I could not.

‘A child. A Plantagenet and Neville heir,’ I repeated, watching his face. By the Virgin! Why could I not tell what he was thinking? Even when he raised his eyes to mine, there was a calculation.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘A child? You are certain?’

‘Yes.’

As I watched a gradual warming, a growing light, that ousted the habitual severity from his face, I realised for the first time what this might mean for him. For Richard was as isolated as I, his family as disparate and divided as mine. We both knew what it was to be alone, unsure of family trust and loyalties. We both knew when to guard our tongues, veil our thoughts, our emotions. But here was the promise of our child, our own family, a priceless blessing. And then Richard was on his feet and he laughed. An outpouring of sheer delight that left me in no doubt of his reception of the inconvenient news, and made me smile in return.

‘Anne, my love, my joy. Why could you not wait, for once in your life!’

‘It was not my choice!’

‘No. I don’t suppose it was.’ I found myself swept off my feet, pulled close beside him on the settle. ‘It complicates matters, but I can’t regret it.’

‘Complicates! I don’t want this child to be born unrecognised, without the sanctity of marriage,’ I muttered the worst of my fears into his shoulder, fears I had never been able to voice to Margery. Within my own family I knew the arrangements for the inconvenience of children born out of wedlock. The Earl had had a daughter, Margaret, product of his youthful hot blood. Care had been taken with her upbringing, and marriage arranged to a man of standing, but I did not want that for a child of mine.

‘That will not happen.’

‘No dispensation, no marriage!’ I retorted with prickly temper.

‘No faith, my cynical one!’

His mouth smiled against mine as he kissed me, silenced me, and his hands seduced my thoughts as he found a need to celebrate by repeating the crucial deed all over again, despite the dust of travel. I was reduced to breathless pleasure. Nor was I in any way unwilling, discovering that the rough scrape of his unshaven chin held its own charm. And although I would never have wagered on it, the aroma of horse and honest sweat was far preferable to the costly perfume of frankincense and civet.

But how could Richard have such conviction in his ability to direct the future to his own needs?

A
HAMMERING
thundered against the outer door of my rooms, breaking the silence of St Martin’s sanctuary. I awoke, eyes wide, senses alert.

‘Margery!’ I whispered to the hunched mound on her bed by the window. ‘Margery!’

It stirred and she sat up, her movements indicating that she was as fraught as I. Not even daylight, I registered, on a cold, grey February morning. My heart began to hammer just as heavily as the fist at the door as my mind cleared from sleep. Perhaps Archbishop Neville’s name was not as powerful as we had thought. Was it Clarence, come at last to drag me back to Cold Harbour? There was no one to stop him if he were so determined as to come at this hour with a force at his back, if he would break the holy protection of sanctuary. Well, I would not go quietly! Grabbing a robe, I climbed from the bed. Then Margery was at my side,
taking charge, any fears masked behind brisk efficiency. She opened the door into the outer chamber.

‘Bar the door until I return. Use the bench against it if you must.’ Margery vanished, leaving me to decide not to manhandle the heavy settle. If Clarence had come for me, I doubted a bench against my bedchamber door would save me.

I pressed my ear to the door. Surely Margery would not exchange words with any one of Clarence’s men who had come to take me into custody. More likely to use a fire-iron against his skull. With common sense returning, my heart rate settled, only to spike again when Margery returned, rapid steps moving her considerable bulk along.

‘Make haste!’ She was already issuing orders, all the while pouring water into the bowl, opening my chests, searching out my comb. ‘We’ve no time to waste.’

‘For what? Tell me! Tell me—or I don’t move from this spot!’ I folded my arms. ‘Who was it?’

She did not even glance in my direction, but unfolded a favourite red damask over-skirt from the clothespress. ‘Lord Francis. He waits without. Gloucester sent him.’

‘Francis? What does he want?’

‘He’ll doubtless tell you when he sees you.’

‘Did you know about this?’ I suddenly thought she seemed less than surprised.

Ignoring my furious question, Margery thrust a shift into my hands. ‘Get dressed, lady.’

Will you trust me? If you will trust me we can accomplish anything we desire.
But what exactly was it Gloucester, in this high-handed manner, had in mind?

I struggled into whatever petticoat and over-gown Margery handed me. She laced me in with little thought to my comfort and all for speed, whilst I braided my hair and covered it with a simple veil and filet because there was no time to do otherwise. We were ready within the quarter-hour with Francis striding to and fro impatiently beyond the door. With barely a greeting between us we were riding through the streets, little lighter, with a thin mist rising from the river to shroud us and dampen our garments. Some hardy souls were about, but most had still to brave the bitter cold of the east wind. No one registered our passing.

Francis led us in the direction of Westminster.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked breathlessly as he bustled us along.

‘Here!’ he announced, and directed me to dismount in a small, deserted courtyard. Horses were already there, blowing in the cold air, steam rising from their rapid journey. I recognised Richard’s stallion amongst them although he was not in sight. Without any greeting I was helped down by a waiting squire who disappeared into the darkness of the nearest archway to carry the news of my arrival. I was too overwhelmed by it all to worry about where I was or what
I was doing. Richard had left me no time for second thoughts.

As Margery fussed over my appearance and attempted to pull my veil into seemly folds, Richard came out, a priest nervously attempting to keep up with him. It was only then that I looked round, determining where we were in the shrouding mist. This was St Stephen’s and Richard came to a halt under the archway to the porch, enveloped in a heavy cloak. Instantly I joined him.

‘What are we doing here?’ I demanded, conscious of the furtive glance of the priest in my direction.

‘Welcome, my dear love,’ Richard murmured softly for my ears, drawing me apart a little. ‘I knew you’d come quickly.’ Although the groove had dug itself between his brows as it did when he was thinking, planning, he grasped my hands in his before turning one up to kiss my palm. He even took the time to smile at me. ‘Not what I would choose, but the best I could do. Times are chancy. You’ll not find much ceremony in the proceedings today, lady. A poor affair, but necessary.’ He indicated the liveried men of his private force, the gleam of the white boar on their breast, keeping discreet watch. ‘I asked if you would trust me and you said yes. Now I must ask you to prove it. Are you ready to take that step?’

I knew immediately. And felt the urgency of it. ‘To marry now? Today?’ I clung to his hands, sharply
anxious. ‘We can’t, Richard.’ My scrambled thoughts clicked over the days of the calendar. ‘It’s Lent. Church law does not permit us to wed in Lent.’

‘Yet we will do it.’

It felt as though I was rushed along in a storm, a stray autumn leaf in a winter gale. ‘Do you have a dispensation?’

‘No.’

‘Then it isn’t legal.’

‘We’ll worry about that later.’

‘Richard, we can’t—’

His hands around mine closed tight. ‘I’ll get the dispensation, I promise you. But I want you and I need to protect you. I can’t do that effectively against Clarence unless you are my wife. Even now he’ll be with the King, arguing his case. Edward is a reed in a stiff wind and will bend for his best interests. I might have waited, but now I cannot. Not when you carry my child. My heir.’ How typical of him to presume that the child would be a son, I thought inconsequentially. His eyes glinted in the greyness, implacable, refusing to allow me to look away as insecurity gnawed at my nerves. ‘This is the final time for you to make a choice, for you to accept or refuse. Will you wed me? Now? Today?’ His lips, cold in the icy wind, brushed my fingers. ‘I think you love me enough to risk all. You’ll not refuse me.’

I tried to read his face, the secretive depths of his eyes. And now I could feel the tension in his hands,
his fingers through the fine kid of his gloves digging into my wrists, the driving insistence within him that would persuade me, but would never force me against my will. Within me I felt a softening, a smoothing out. I had reached the eye of the storm. The still, quiet centre, where all I wanted in the world was here, a priceless gift, being offered to me in his hands, still clasped around mine.

Never had I handed my will so readily to another. ‘It shall be as you wish. If you say yes, Richard, then I say yes. If no, then I say no.’

First there was astonishment at my capitulation. Then satisfaction, an ebbing of tension. ‘I say yes.’

‘Then that is what I want.’ I stretched on my toes to kiss his cheek.

‘Come, then. All is prepared.’ He led me in.

‘Do we make a run for it to Middleham, or do we brave the wolf in his den and tell him what we’ve done?’ I tried for a lightness I did not feel. My heart was full of joy, but fear lurked and snapped its teeth.

‘My heart says Middleham, my dear wife.’ Richard fleetingly kissed my temple, his thoughts running ahead. Something I realised I must grow to accept. ‘But my gut says Westminster.’

‘Who wins?’

‘Gut. We’ll not stir the fire more than we need. Edward in a temper could scorch us all.’

So that’s where we went. It was still early, the brutally bare ceremony over in the blink of an eye, but the King had a reputation for being about business as soon as there was light in the sky to read by, breaking his fast and hearing Mass before the seventh hour, so there was no surprise to find him occupied with documents to hand in the panelled room he used for such business. Nor was it a surprise to find Clarence with him and the King looking burdened.

At the door, with no servant to announce us, Richard drew me closer against him within his arm. It drove home the reality for me far more than the rapidly muttered Latin in St Stephen’s. I need fear no longer. Here was my protection, his heart beating strongly against my spread palms as I turned momentarily towards him for courage. I would never be unprotected again. The wonder of it, the sheer comfort of it, enveloped me as he pressed my lips with commanding fingers to silence me.

‘We may not have quite won the war yet,’ he murmured, ‘but we’ve won this battle. Let’s announce our victory.’ Taking my hand, he drew me forwards beside him, pushing back the door.

Hard pressed, Edward sat behind a table, face imprinted with a mix of boredom and frustration, two documents under his hands. Clarence leaned on the table before him in full flow. I picked up the general flow.
Inheritance
figured. So did
Lady Anne.
I did not
hear
convent
or
my ward, my decision,
but could guess at it. The King appeared to be listening with half an ear, but looked up with a warm smile, glad of a reprieve, as we entered.

‘Richard! And Lady Anne…?’

I saw the question, the sharp awareness, come into his face as he saw me, as his mind grasped just what I might be doing at Westminster at so early an hour. And why Richard might be holding me firmly by the hand. A little bubble of anticipation grew in my belly. I was not beyond enjoying the anticipation of Richard’s announcement that my future was out of their equally unscrupulous hands.

‘No, sire.’ Richard, ridiculously formal, superlatively solemn, because he too was enjoying it, drew me forwards. ‘Allow me to introduce to you—to both of you—no longer the Lady Anne Neville, nor yet Princess of Wales, but my Duchess. Anne, Duchess of Gloucester.’

For a long moment the words dropped into a silence.

‘What?’ It was hardly more than a whisper. Clarence pushed himself upright, sleek and dangerous as a hunting cat. ‘God’s Wounds! I don’t believe you, even you, Gloucester, would do this…’

The King chose for more circumspection. ‘Well, Richard. This is more than a surprise…’ He stood slowly, abandoning the business, walked round the end of the table and approached to stand before us in
familiar stance, hands loosely clasped on his belt. I saw the disquiet there in his braced spine, in his frowning eyes, even though he smiled at me. And then his gaze snapped to Richard, a whiplash. ‘And the matter of a dispensation?’

Richard snapped his fingers whilst I marvelled at his defiance. ‘So much for a dispensation. It is done.’

‘It’s not legal!’ Clarence snarled, the sleeping cat come to life.

‘It has all the legality I need for now.’ The reply might be for Clarence, but the focus was all on the King. ‘We were wed by a priest at St Stephen’s an hour ago, in the sight of God and before witnesses. It’s as legal and binding as it needs to be.’ He produced the written document from the breast of his doublet, handing it to Edward, who spread it and read the priest’s authority.

‘It will not stand before the law,’ Clarence challenged.

‘And will you question it before the law, brother?’ Now Richard accepted the challenge and returned it. ‘I will fight you every inch of the way to prove my marriage to Anne Neville valid.’

‘I will deny that validity without my permission, by God!’

‘We’ve been over this old ground before. Anne is of age and her own mistress to make her own choice—’

‘She was given into my keeping—’

‘And you chose to put her to work in your kitchens—’

‘So that
you
could not abduct her and thwart my authority—’

All the old arguments rolled on around me, and since I knew them by heart I allowed my mind to return to the bleak little ceremony that had once again turned my life on its head. A marriage that Richard had carried off with such organised efficiency, such arrogance, in the sure and certain belief that no one would question him. It might have been a secretive, crack-of-dawn affair, but his assurance, his authority through it all demanded my admiration. As if there was nothing untoward in a royal marriage held without guests or any extravagance whatsoever in Lent when penitence and denial were the order of the day. A priest raised from his bed, a fraudulent official document presented that wasn’t a dispensation, the exchange of gold to the benefit of St Stephen’s and its reluctant but compliant cleric. And two private individuals, Richard and I, entering into matrimony before two witnesses. Margery supported me with stolid loyalty. Francis stood guard, hand on sword hilt. But no one appeared at the door to denounce us for any real or imagined impediments.

We had exchanged our vows simply, the arched and pillared space around us cold and silent. How different from the triumphant festivity of my first marriage. Then my new husband had more concern for his own
achievement in taking one more step towards his invasion of England. More concern for the elegant fall of his own cloak than for the happiness of his bride. This morning in St Stephen’s could not have been more stark in comparison and I thanked God for it. For Richard had pressed his lips to my finger where he had pushed his over-large ring. And then to my lips as if to sanctify before the altar the commitment we had already made. His eyes spoke of adoration and his child’s heart beat below mine. This morning my heart had been engaged and I knew it would remain so until my death. I would love Richard for ever, secure in the knowledge that I, too, would be loved, that I would never be abandoned or humiliated.

When the tone of the exchange around me became more acrimonious, beating its path into my wayward thoughts, Edward raised his hand to silence Clarence, but he would not be silenced.

‘You think you have won, brother.’ No smack of compromise here, the warning to Richard harsh and unrepentant. ‘But I warn you—don’t celebrate too soon. You may have Anne, but you’ll not get her inheritance. And the Countess of Warwick, traitor that she is, will stay in Beaulieu under guard until the day she dies. I swear it on the blood of Christ.’

‘She will not!’ I reacted, unable to remain silent, astonished at the venom of my attack on Clarence. ‘She
deserves no such imprisonment. The Countess has no sin other than by association. The treachery—’ it hurt me to admit it, but I did ‘—was the Earl’s alone.’ Then I could not resist. ‘And yours, too, as I recall, your Grace! You were quick enough to clasp hands with the Earl. Before your ultimate betrayal of him!’