Authors: Anne O'Brien
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #Medieval, #General
I opened my mouth, closed it again.
What is to become of the Countess?
An unfinished thread of the tapestry, but I dared not ask. Since Richard had not spoken of it I presumed that she remained incarcerated. I willed myself not to dwell on it yet. I would not let it spoil the occasion.
‘It’s by far the best I could ever have hoped for,’ I acknowledged. ‘I owe it all to you.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Richard’s quick smile, lighting his sombre features, rekindled the happiness within me. We spurred our mounts forwards, outstripping the Herald, so we approached the barbican alone at a smart canter. ‘And Clarence will detest it,’ Richard added, eyes alight with unholy mirth as the guard shouted orders to those within.
‘Now why should that please me?’ I could not stop myself laughing aloud, even as the rain beat down again, cold on any unprotected flesh.
‘It is my pleasure to amuse you, lady. I shall expect payment later for all services rendered.’ The gleam in Richard’s eye was full of promise.
Then for my homecoming there was only the final distance, a matter of yards, for the horses to cover. I recalled briefly, sharply, wanting to escape from Middleham when my heart was broken by what I saw as Richard’s betrayal. Now it was a refuge. Just as I had anticipated, Master Hampton, our old steward, was there to lift me down as soon as we had entered the courtyard, receptive smiles from my people to welcome me home. My damp and clinging skirts were no longer a burden to me, nor the veil that dripped chillingly against my neck. Rather there was a joy, a lightness, that I had not known for so long. Middleham belonged to Richard and the lands that surrounded us belonged to me for our child to inherit. I was surrounded by an affection and loyalty that took my breath away. Here there was no talk of treachery and deceit, no suspicions of betrayal and lies. Blotting tears with my sleeves, I took Master Hampton’s hands and thanked him for his good wishes.
Now was not the time for empty longings.
A knight of Richard’s household pushed through the crowd to accost him and murmur in his ear. Taken up with my own battle against sentimental foolishness,
I barely noticed, except that I knew from the tilt of Richard’s head that the news pleased him.
Suddenly all was turned about. Richard was beside me and, grasping my shoulders, he spun me around, so that he held me to face across the space of the courtyard with its milling horses and scurrying servants towards the massive keep, to the main entrance on the first floor with its flight of steep steps.
‘What?’ I squirmed against his tight clasp.
‘Look.’
‘What at?’ I glanced up at him warily, where he stood behind me.
‘At the door-arch. The steps! Look, Anne!’ His fingers tightened as he shook me lightly, his eyes bright with understanding.
So I did.
Heavy skirts lifting in the damp breeze. Her hand raised, a little tentatively I thought, to secure her veil against her neck. I could not see her face clearly, but I imagined the tears in her eyes if they were like mine. Then she was not tentative at all, stepping forwards and raising her hands in greeting. The Countess had returned to Middleham. How long since I had seen her, how long since I had all but given up hope of us ever being reunited. Now she was here at Middleham, which she had always loved. My fingers tightened over Richard’s where they still held me. Emotion rushed to block my throat.
‘How did you do it?’ I managed at last.
‘The spirit of compromise, dear heart, as Edward advised, although the outcome was in doubt to the last minute.’
And I laughed softly, tilting my cheek to rub it against his hand. ‘I know how you did it!’ Richard would not have told me. He never would. It was not in his nature to boast of this little victory that meant so much to me. ‘I know what your
spirit of compromise
entailed! You gave up Great Chamberlain so that Clarence would be indebted to you.’
For the briefest of moments he angled his head so that his cheek rested against my veil. ‘I hoped Clarence wouldn’t be able to resist it. Cheap enough, to allow Clarence his titles and the pleasure of being Great Chamberlain. In return, I had the Countess brought here—she arrived two days ago. I think the Earl would have approved.’
‘Oh, Richard! He would!’ Then a sudden doubt. ‘Can she stay here?’
‘Yes. She’s under my protection now. With some circumspection on our part, there’ll be no more talk of imprisonment.’
‘You did not tell me.’
‘How could you doubt me, faithless one? As for telling you—I was not sure and I would not raise your hopes, only to have them dashed, but so it is. Go to her. She is a proud lady, but she will be lost and a little sad, I think.’
I did not need him to tell me that. But still I hesitated. Richard’s hands loosed their grip to free me, but I turned in his arms, holding on. My lips found his, despite our very public situation, in a quick but impassioned kiss. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
No doubt surprised at my spontaneity, he eyed my damp lashes cautiously. ‘Don’t weep. I meant to make you happy!’
‘You have. You’ll never know how much.’
Then Richard nudged me forwards. I walked, slowly at first as a strange shyness took me, across the courtyard, and then I began to run. Whilst my mother, the Countess, stood with open arms to receive me.
Late autumn 1472—Middleham Castle,
North Yorkshire
Y
ESTERDAY
I gave birth to my son. An easy birth, so Margery said with callous heartiness, although I denied her opinion at the time. As I shrieked against the pain, Margery assured me that I bore it all with a fierce courage, as a Neville daughter should. I expect she was right. She’s seen enough Neville births over the years, my own included.
I would have called the child Richard, for my father, the Earl. But Richard,
my
Richard, insisted that it was politic to honour the King his brother. Honour the King? I was not in the mood for it and said as much, but I could see by the set to my lord’s mouth that there was no arguing with him. So after a bout of sharp disagreement, I went into dignified
retreat and the baby is Edward. Edward, Lord of Middleham. It has a fine ring to it, for a day-old infant.
I find it difficult to take my eyes from him. The child has such a shock of black hair. Dark blue eyes. He will mirror my own colouring, unless his eyes change as they often do, to become even darker. Then he will truly be Richard’s son. So small and helpless he seems, overwhelmed by the carved cradle that held both me and my sister Isabel. But he grips Richard’s finger with a will to live. Neville tenacity, Richard says, determination to have his own way, like his mother. But Richard smiles when he says it.
My mother the Countess remains with me here at Middleham. I still hold to that as a miracle wrought by Richard. Quieter than before, sadder and with despair in her face when she thinks no one watches, yet still she has the same dignity she always had as the sought-after Beauchamp heiress and Countess of Warwick. I think she will never recover from the loss of the Earl, and refuses to lay any blame at his feet for the destruction of our fortunes. She is more tolerant than I. I have abandoned any attempt to force on her the destructive ambition of the Earl because she will not listen and becomes distressed. Because I love her, I let it go, and leave her with her memories of the magnificent Earl of Warwick, who loved her and whose power once determined the wearer of the Crown of England. For her strength of will she has
my admiration. The same old authority braces my mother’s shoulders against the injustice of the world. When Richard is absent on royal business, she forgets and takes the reins back into her own hands as she always used to do at Middleham. And I allow it, until memory returns to her and she steps back, acknowledging my pre-eminence.
Isabel is absent and intransigent. I have not seen my unhappy sister for well-nigh six months, since that day of naked emotion outside Queen Elizabeth’s parlour. The rift is as deep as ever, and will continue to be so as things stand. I don’t know what to say to her to heal her wounds. And so I say nothing. Perhaps it is not kind, but what point in pursuing the hunt when the fox has gone to ground? As long as she remains under the influence of vile Clarence there is no softening in her. She has made no attempt to heal the wounds with the Countess, another sin to hold against her in my mind.
And then there is Queen Margaret, Queen no longer. I try not to think about her but occasionally she slips below my guard. How could she not when her influence on my life was paramount during those difficult months in France? She helped bring us all to ruin. God forgive her, because I can not.
King Edward took her to London, where vicious abuse was hurled at her along with mud and stones and filth from the gutters as she was exhibited through
the streets on her way to being incarcerated in the Tower. Was she forced to inhabit the same rooms that enclosed old, mad Henry in his final years? I doubt she found any solace in them. She would be there now except that Elizabeth Woodville—for what devious means I cannot guess since Elizabeth is never moved by interests other than her own—pleaded for her. So Margaret waits out her days in softer captivity at Wallingford Castle.
Of what does she dream, now that her son is dead?
My heart does not overflow with compassion for her.
As for Richard—he is the light of my life. And I of his, so he says. I believe him for there are no shadows between us, unless it is the legality of my marriage and the legitimacy of our son. But no one questions it. No one challenges Richard of Gloucester, not even King Edward, who allows him the ultimate authority to preserve the peace of the realm as Constable of England. Sometimes I cannot believe the turnaround in my fortune from the depths of degradation to this miracle of happiness. Sometimes, when Richard is gone from me, I fear for the future. When he returns, when he sees the sleeplessness in my face, Richard chides me, kisses away my fears, heals me with the strength of his arms and the demands of his body. Yet still it lingers, a shade to tread on the hem of my gown when I least expect it.
Margery clucks over the infant who is awake and
fussing, snatching at the air with tiny hands. When he is old enough, Richard will give him a wooden sword and teach him how to use it, as his father taught him. There will be battles to fight still in this war-torn land. Whilst I will give my son a far more precious gift, a little metal bird, well travelled now with dents and scratches on its metal feathers. When he learns to blow across the tail it will still warble with its shrill voice.
He will treasure it, our dear, much-loved son. As I did. I pray to God that he will not need its silly foolishness to keep the hurt and humiliation at bay, as once it comforted me. But for now, as the babe cries in furious hunger, Margery says that, since my son has inherited my temper, he would surely survive Noah’s Flood without any help from a battered fairing.
Richard smiles at me. His eyes are dark with pride and love.
The name Anne Neville does not, even for lovers of historical fiction, spring readily to mind. She makes a fleeting appearance in Shakespeare’s
Richard III,
where Richard, complete with Shakespearean hump and limp, woos her over the corpse of King Henry VI, the most recent of Richard’s victims. Anne’s words to Richard:
O, cursed be the hand that made these holes!
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!
Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!
And Richard’s reply, suitably unloving:
Was ever woman in such humour wooed?
Was ever woman in such humour won?
I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long.
Not the obvious subject for a romance.
And yet, pushing Shakespeare aside – after all he had a political agenda – there are such possibilities in this relationship.
Anne is an enigma. Other than the date of her birth and death and a minimum record of the significant events in her life, we know nothing of her preferences, her opinions or her personal reaction to the influences that shaped her. None of her emotions or thoughts have filtered down to us, there are no personal reminiscences or letters. Nor are there any accurate contemporary portraits except for stylised sketches such as from the Salisbury Roll. She was described as gracious and fair when in France, but that was the ideal of womanhood and would have been said of any newly created royal princess. She lived for only twenty-eight years and left little imprint on history.
With so little to hedge me about with restrictions, I felt free to recreate Anne Neville within the spirit of the age in which she lived. The skeleton of the story is for the most part historical fact. The conversations and scenes within it are mine and I make no apology for them. It was my choice to write
Virgin Widow
as a romance.
There are some differences of opinion among historians of course – when are there not? Did Anne remain a virgin throughout her first marriage? Did the birth of Anne and Richard’s son – the date is uncertain – suggest his conception before their marriage? When knowledge is limited and the dates of significant events not recorded, the door is open for a novelist to choose the most dramatic possibility.
There is no evidence of an attraction between Anne and Richard during their upbringing at Middleham – but there is no evidence that it did
not
exist. Equally the closeness of the relationship between Queen Margaret and her son invites speculation. He was spoiled and wilful, bent on revenge: his reputation is well recorded and he was without doubt the apple of his mother’s eye. The rest is for the novelist and the reader.
Finally, it must be acknowledged that Anne, Richard and Edward were all very young within the confines of this episode, but I make no excuse for allowing them an adult voice. Raised in precociously power-hungry households, in a world of treachery, double-dealing and political in-fighting, they were not children. When Anne married Edward at the age of fourteen, her opinions would have been well established under the influence of the Earl and Countess of Warwick. She would have been raised to accept that her marriage would be one of political necessity, any more intimate connection with her husband being one of pure chance. Richard, experiencing the chancy life of a powerless fugitive as well as that of an indulged royal prince, was considered sufficiently mature to be created Constable of England and lead an army into battle when he was a mere eighteen years old.