Virgin Widow (6 page)

‘See. I too look nothing like my mother or my sister.’ I shook it again to loosen the tight weaving and my hair fell long and straight, past my shoulders, as dark as his.

‘No, you don’t.’ At least he was looking at me again.

‘Perhaps we are both changelings.’

‘Perhaps.’ There was the slightest curve to his mouth, but still nothing that could be called a smile. ‘Sometimes you are the Devil’s own brat.’

‘So Margery says.’ I smiled tentatively. So did he.

‘Does your shoulder hurt?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I fell on it when I rolled from my horse. But it is not deformed!’

I had the grace to drop my eyes. ‘I know. I only said it to wound.’

‘You succeeded. I thought you were my friend.’ He spoke to me as a brother to a younger sister, but still it pleased me. I was rarely admitted to such intimacy.

‘I am. Come with me, now. Margery has a salve that will bring out the bruise and give you some ease. She will stitch your jacket too.’

‘You
should do it for your impertinence.’ Giving the horse a final pat, he gathered up the empty bowl and the unused bandages. ‘What will she say when she sees your hair?’ At last a true smile creased his lean cheeks.

‘She will be cross. So will Bessie.’ I sighed at the prospect of further punishment even as I accepted it as a price to pay to restore the closeness between us.
I had learned one painful lesson. I must learn to guard my tongue. Richard might appear immune to the spurious gossip spread by adherents to Lancaster to hurt and maim, but he was not, and it would be a heartless friend who opened the wound. Richard Plantagenet had a surprising vulnerability.

I was not heartless and I would be his friend.

M
ARRIAGE
began to loom interestingly on the Neville front.

In the following year my father was absent more often than he was present. The household continued to keep its usual efficient order with the Countess at the head of affairs, but she missed him, and as I grew I sensed that something out of the way was afoot. Sometimes it was difficult for her to smile; she rarely laughed. At dinner when she sat in place of honour I could see, when I dragged my thoughts from my own concerns, that she picked at the dishes presented to her. She was pale and I think did not sleep well.

‘Where is he? Is my father at Calais?’ I would ask my mother. The Earl was often called upon to be there to oversee the defence of this most important possession on the coast of Europe.

‘No. The King has sent him to France again.’

‘Why?’

‘To make an alliance between our two countries.’

‘Will it be good for us?’

‘Yes. Your father thinks so.’

‘Why does he not sign with France, in the King’s name? Then he could come home.’

My mother’s brow knitted. ‘Because, my inquisitive daughter, King Edward is not in agreement. He would prefer an arrangement with Burgundy, rather than France.’

‘Is he arranging my betrothal?’ This was Isabel. At sixteen years Isabel was of an age or more to be wed or at least promised in a betrothal. So far no arrangement had been made, a matter that was not to her liking.

‘Yes. I think it is in my lord’s mind.’ A caustic reply for so celebratory an event.

‘Will it be a foreign lord? Will I have to live beyond the Channel?’ Isabel was relentless. For a moment, she looked doubtful at leaving home and family so far behind. Then her expression brightened again as if marriage to a foreign prince would please her mightily.

‘I’m not certain.’

‘Oh. Will Father tell me when he returns?’

‘He might—if his plans have progressed so far.’ The Countess’s brief smile held a wisp of dry humour. ‘Don’t worry, Isabel. I am sure it will be a match made in heaven.’

But in spite of this amusement at Isabel’s dreaming of a handsome knight, there was some issue here. My
mother’s expression became even more strained, a thin line of worry between her brows as she made an excuse of a word with the steward to leave the supper table. Isabel was too intent on her future glory as a bride, but I knew that the Countess was deliberately selective with her opinions. Or perhaps she herself was uncertain of the Earl’s intentions.

At least she had given me some ammunition.

‘I thought you would be much sought after,’ I needled. ‘No one appears to be rushing to our door to claim your hand.’

‘I
shall
be sought after. You’re too young to know anything about it.’

‘You’ll soon be too old. Fit only for a convent.’

‘I shall marry one of the greatest in the land.’ She was, to my delight, crosser by the minute. ‘Do you think the Earl of Warwick will allow his heiress to go unmarried? Or to be claimed by a man who lacks importance and authority?’

No. I did not. I thought as did Isabel that it would be of prime importance for the Earl to secure a bridegroom of comparable standing and wealth to our own. But there was an uncertainty, an unease, about the situation that I could not unravel. If at sixteen years, most heiresses were formally betrothed if not wed, why was it different for Isabel? And what if Isabel did not marry? What would happen to me as a younger daughter? Was I destined for a
convent? A
Bride of Christ? I shrank from the prospect, enclosing walls, a life of strict obedience and enforced poverty. I swore that was not for me. As for any prospective bridegroom for myself, I could not picture him. At eleven years I did not care greatly, but Isabel did and was decidedly ill tempered as the days and weeks passed with no remedy.

The Earl returned at the end of the month, but after the briefest of greetings, hardly more than the briefest of smiles for Isabel and myself, a quick exchange of words with Master Ellerby, he spent the day closeted with my mother. He was wont to be an indulgent father and we were used to more of his attention, but his face bore a return to moody preoccupation and displeasure. When we were reunited before supper, when my mother’s company and a cup of Bordeaux had smoothed out the lines, I decided to risk his indulgence. I stood in front of him where he lounged in his favourite chair before the fireplace.

‘Did you make the treaty with France, sir?’ I asked.

‘I see you’ve been following diplomatic policy.’ I saw an appreciative gleam in the eyes he slid towards the Countess.

‘Yes. It would be a good alliance for England.’

‘So it would, and, yes, I have. King Louis will make a strong ally.’

‘What is he like?’

‘Uncommonly ugly and remarkably devious. He spins a web to trap and hold friends and enemies alike.’

I liked the picture, having an interest in powerful men—how would I not with the Earl of Warwick as my father?—but I changed course in pursuit of information on Isabel’s marriage and my own destiny. ‘When do you leave again, Father? Do you return to France?’

‘I shall not leave.’ His dark brows drew together. ‘I’ve had my fill of King Edward’s Court. And the role of Royal Ambassador.’

‘Does the King not mind?’

‘No. He has other voices of counsel. The Woodvilles are knee-deep around him, by God!’

There was a harshness there. I think he addressed the Countess more than me. This was interesting, far more than Isabel’s non-existent bridegroom. ‘Why is the King no longer your friend, sir?’ I asked.

Slowly the Earl turned his head to look at me. ‘So you would discuss politics now, Mistress Anne.’

‘Yes, sir. I would.’

‘Anne—you step beyond what is seemly. You’re too young for such weighty matters.’ The Countess frowned at me.

‘I am not. I wish to know,’ I persisted, waiting. Would the Earl refuse? Would he brush me off like a child? My heart trembled at my boldness.

The Earl gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘You have grown up without my noticing,’ he remarked, then, startling
me, lifted me off my feet to sit on the lid of the coffer beside him, leaning forwards, his forearms on his thighs, so that our eyes were on a level. I saw the shadowy remains of temper in his face despite the Countess’s soft handling and I knew that he would answer me honestly. I crossed my ankles and folded my hands demurely in my lap.

‘Once the King was my friend, that’s true,’ he spoke softly. ‘I stood at his right hand, as his counsellor. Do you understand?’

I nodded. ‘You are Great Chamberlain of England—the most powerful man in the whole country.’

The Earl laughed. ‘But the King is more powerful than I and now the King is finding his wings, like a young hawk. He has little more than twenty-five years under his belt. Young men find the need to test their strength.’

It seemed a vast age to me, but I nodded with solemn wisdom. ‘But why does that mean he no longer likes you?’ I asked, reducing it to the low level of a squabble between Isabel and myself.

The Earl’s face became as set as a Twelfth-Night mask. ‘Liking is not the issue, Anne, nor the blood of family, which should bind us together. The quarrel—if you will—began when the King married Elizabeth Woodville. Her family has Edward’s ear now, against all good sense.’

The Woodvilles again. I knew more of this by now,
than I had at York. Margery’s gossip—deliciously forbidden—was that dark magic had been used, a spell cast to bring the King to his knees in thrall to the Woodville woman. I knew enough not to repeat it in this company.

‘Her father Lord Rivers is pre-eminent at Court as Lord Treasurer and with a new Earldom,’ the Earl continued. ‘He pushes the King in the direction of Burgundy rather than France, against my advice…’ The words grated and I thought he no longer realised he was speaking to me. ‘Marriages have been arranged between the Queen’s sisters and the unwed heirs of the most noble families in the land—young men to whom I myself would look for an alliance…’ He took a breath and smiled wryly. ‘But that’s not important to you yet.’

‘So the King does not talk to you any more,’ I persisted. Friendship was everything to me.

‘We are still cousins,’ the Earl said simply, ‘but the King is misguided and I think I have to watch my back. The Woodvilles are no friends of ours.’ His face set again, and I saw his fist clench on his knee. ‘No one will rob the Nevilles of their wealth and power.’

‘Your father helped the King to take the throne, you see,’ the Countess intervened to draw the sting, handing the Earl another cup of wine. ‘We would have expected some loyalty, but the King has decided to repay us by ignoring my lord’s advice. The Queen is
a determined woman. She will promote her family at the expense of the great magnates of the realm.’

‘Certainly at my expense,’ the Earl growled. ‘Does that tell you all you want to know?’ He managed a smile. ‘There’s nothing to worry you, Anne—or you, Isabel. One day King Edward will see that my counsel is good.’ He stroked a finger down the length of my nose, then lifted me to the floor. ‘Then we shall be friends again.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It all seemed very plain and I was perfectly satisfied. The King was in the wrong. The Earl would be patient and would triumph. There was no doubt in my mind and I pitied the King for his bewitchment by the Woodville woman.

‘But have you got me a husband?’ Isabel interrupted with a scowl in my direction for capturing the centre of attention. She had been burning to ask since the Earl’s horse had first set foot on the bridge over the moat and could wait no longer.

A tightening of the muscles in his jaw made me think that this was one of the issues to displease my father. With a flicker of eyes, he appealed to the Countess. But when she nodded and the Earl smiled at Isabel, I decided I was misled.

‘Yes. I think I have.’

‘Who? When?’ Excitement vibrated from Isabel until she glowed with it, her fair skin lit from within so that her future beauty became spectacularly apparent.
Even I had to admit it, even though it filled me with despair that I should never rival her.

‘I shall not tell you yet, Isabel,’ he teased. ‘Be patient. But it will be before you are old and grey.’

So Isabel was to be wed. I picked it apart later in the chamber I shared with her. I would be next. How long would I have to wait? Not until I was Isabel’s age, I hoped. I wanted to know
now,
even as I feared leaving Middleham. I vowed to discover all I could.

It was most frustrating. Isabel might fret, I might keep my ears stretched wide for any crumb of information, but the Earl was concerned with an outbreak of cattle thievery in the area whilst the Countess, chivvying the steward, waged war against an infestation of lice and ticks with the warmer weather. Nothing would satisfy her until the whole place and the people in it reeked of the pungent summer savory that grew in abundance in the herb garden and we itched less. Then, when I had all but abandoned my quest, the Earl summoned Richard to his private room where he invariably conducted business. It was sufficiently unusual for me to take note. It proved to be a long and private conversation, and I knew it because I waited in the passage outside to grab him as soon as he emerged.

‘What’s it about?’ I asked Francis Lovell, who passed from kitchen to stables, a flat bread and a slab of cheese in his hand.

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘He’ll tell us soon enough.’

The door opened and Richard stepped out into the corridor. ‘Are you in the Earl’s bad books?’ I demanded before he could draw breath.

‘No.’ Faintly bemused, he looked as if he had difficulty in collecting his thoughts, much as he had the day he had sat by me after the blow to his head. For a moment he stood immobile, hands fisted on hips, studying the ground at his feet. Then, aware of his audience of two, me demanding, Francis frankly curious, ‘It’s nothing of importance.’ But we would not be brushed off.

‘Is the Earl at odds again with the King? Is that it?’ Francis enquired.

‘When is he not these days? But the Earl is not at odds with me.’

‘Tell us!’ I demanded.

‘No. I am sworn to secrecy and
you
cannot keep secrets.’ He looked at me with all seriousness and I did not care for the sharp appraisal in his stare.
‘You
are not old enough to keep some secrets.’ And moving off with Francis, taking a bite of the flat bread, he refused to say more.

To my disgust he remained as tight as a clam.

But that night as Bessie combed and braided my hair the thought came to me, the faintest glimmer that
grew until it was burned as bright as a warning beacon. Isabel’s mysterious bridegroom, of course—was he to be Richard Plantagenet? It took my breath away. I gasped, making my nurse chide me for not sitting still, thinking that it was her own doing. I shook my head. Would it not be the perfect solution? A marriage made in heaven, as my mother had said. They were of an age, related by blood. He was the King’s brother, important enough to be sought as a groom for a Neville bride. Isabel and Richard. Why not?

A dark and unpleasant emotion filled all the corners in my heart with a pain that was all but physical. I knew jealousy when I saw it, but I had never felt anything like this. Isabel was sitting back against the pillows of our bed, braiding her own curling fall of hair. I scowled in her direction. Did she know? She had said nothing. I couldn’t imagine her remaining silent on such an issue. She must have felt the force of my hostility because she looked up and returned my frown.

‘And what’s wrong with you, little sister?’

‘Nothing!’ I hunched a shoulder. ‘Isabel…would you wish to marry Richard?’

‘Richard? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. He’s not at all suitable.’

I was not convinced. Richard as Isabel’s husband seemed eminently suitable. I would never accept it. I did not know why, but I detested the thought. When I clutched my belly and groaned in a fit of childish
drama, Bessie accused me of over-eating the cherry tarts and dosed me on a bitter infusion of angelica. I did not tell her the truth. How could I when I could not yet interpret the pain that stabbed at me when I envisioned Isabel standing with her hands clasped warmly within Richard’s?