Virgin Widow (15 page)

Margaret did not deign to reply, waving aside my explanation with an imperious hand. Relief washed through me.

‘And how old are you?’ she asked suddenly. Again a surprise that jolted me into sharp awareness.

‘Fourteen years, your Majesty.’

‘Hmm.’ She looked me over, from head to foot, as if I was so far below her that she would crush me, as a black beetle, beneath her gilded leather shoe. We waited as the tension built until it seemed that the whole space beneath the arched roof was full, packed tight from arch to arch with Margaret’s animosity. It had a weight of its own that lay on us even more heavily than the breathless heat. Then Margaret’s eyes shifted once more to the Countess.

‘Your husband has vilified my good name. He has smeared the parentage of my son. He had the temerity to suggest that the Prince is the offspring of adultery. How do I forgive that?’

What use in denying what was universally known? ‘The Earl regrets it, your Majesty. He was wrong to do so. He would ask your pardon for any hurt he has caused you and the Prince, your son. My lord the Earl asks nothing more than to be restored to your good favour, and be allowed to serve you as a sign of his sincere repentance.’

How smoothly the Earl of Warwick’s abject contrition was offered. I could feel my mother’s disgust in her rigid shoulders, the little quiver of her gossamer veiling on its golden wires, that she should have to make the gesture, but nothing showed in the calm voice or in the respectfully bent head.

Margaret would have none of it.

‘A pardon? Service to the cause of Lancaster? Only because he cannot return to England any other way. Repentance, by God!’ All the cold banked anger flared into hot-blooded fury. ‘Liars! All of you! You will say what suits. You may call it pragmatism. I call it hypocrisy.’ She stood, so suddenly as to cause her ladies to step back in a wave of consternation. ‘I recommend you to resign yourself to exile in some foreign Court, as I have been so condemned. To throw yourself on the charity of the few who might listen to your distress.’ Lifting her skirts with one hand, she gestured to her gown. ‘Poverty is hard to bear for those who have known only luxury.’

Rich enough, the bright green of summer beech leaves, her gown was furred and beribboned, but I had not noticed until this moment. The nap was worn on the front panel, at hem and sleeve, and was not in the style of present fashion. Her rings were her only jewels, forcing me to consider that she had probably pawned the rest to raise a loan.

‘I know what it is to beg and hoard the meagre
wealth I have,’ she confirmed. ‘To sell and pawn what is mine like some common merchant. How will proud Warwick face such humiliation? I know what it is like. I would wish it to be three times as heavy on his black soul as it has been on mine. Don’t look to me for aid, my lady of Warwick. I will never accept the Earl of Warwick as an ally.’ She all but spat the last words, then turned from us to bow her head curtly to Louis, who had sat silently through the whole proceedings. ‘Your Majesty. I have done what you wished of me. I have met with this traitorous family. I have nothing more to say to them. I shall now retire to my rooms.’

What abject failure of our mission. Proud and vindictive, Margaret swept from our presence. All we could report back to the Earl was that she was not willing to give an inch.

At least the accommodations at Angers were an improvement on Amboise.

Angers had a library. It helped to make my life bearable as a place of refuge where it was possible, if only for a few hours, to forget. It did not rival King Edward’s collection of fine books and manuscripts at Westminster, but as the summer settled into a period of unseasonal rain, it offered me the stories of Boccaccio and histories, books of fine paintings of plants and flowers, a hearty relief from Lady Masham’s works of piety and morality.

We had settled into the royal castle at Angers. Well used to travel as we were, this was not the same, with no comfort of familiarity, no ease of well-remembered rooms. Nor did we have our possessions around us, our servants other than our most personal attendants. Everything was strange. All I owned was packed into one small wooden chest. Dresses and shifts, a winter cloak lined with fur, the necessary accessories for me to appear decently in public. A metal bird and a pair of embroidered gauntlets. How vulnerable we were. I had no experience of this bone-chilling insecurity, but learnt it tenfold in those days when Neville failure and defeat faced us at every turn. Queen Margaret swept through the corridors and audience chambers of Angers, her childhood home before her marriage, with the confidence of ownership, meeting us without even the barest acknowledgment of our existence, haughty in her knowledge that hers would be the deciding voice in any negotiations.

Not that there were any after her rejection of our suit.

We had been there more than a week when another heavy shower drove Isabel and myself from the formal terraces to the refuge of the library. Running from the deluge, shaking the rain from our gowns, we entered with laughter and flushed cheeks, a momentary return of youthful spirits not much in evidence in recent days.

We were not the first to seek its refuge.

A young man, resplendent in vivid silks and velvet, the deep blue of them enhancing the russet lights in his hair, stood before the fireplace where a fire had been lit against the chill morning. Soft-voiced, he was engaged in issuing orders in rapid French to a servant, yet not a servant of Angers, for we immediately recognised him—Thomas, the Earl’s youngest squire, an angular and unpolished lad, had been waylaid by the unknown gentleman and commandeered into service.

‘Bring me wine. And then build up the fire. It’s cold in here.’ The courtier turned his head in our direction, hearing the opening and closing of the door, the clamour of our voices when we first entered. He immediately bowed to us with a graceful flourish. ‘Then serve these two ladies who look in need of refreshment.’

He was young, perhaps the age of Isabel. His welcome should have put us at our ease, his face being open, pleasant, a little smile on his lips, yet I found myself immediately, uncomfortably aware of our less-than-tidy appearance, the damp hem of my gown, beside this exquisitely groomed courtier. Before I could stop, I found myself smoothing the folds of my veil and twitching my sleeves into place. I could feel my face heat with annoyance under his cool appraisal. Meanwhile Thomas went about his work, slow at first to comply. He could speak French, as I knew, as any well-educated youth from a good family would,
but the young man’s accent and peremptory delivery perhaps made the words difficult to grasp.

‘Come, boy. Wine, I said. King Louis’s servants are usually more efficient.’ Decorative, imperious, smiling still, the courtier pointed to the chased silver flagon and stemmed goblets set out on the cupboard.

Thomas, flushed, poured and carried the cup as he had been meticulously taught, presenting it to the young man with an inclination of his head, as he would to the Earl. The young man took the cup.

‘My thanks. But you must learn not to keep me waiting, you understand. You are very young, I suppose, and not used to the ways of this Court.’ He leaned forwards, lowering his voice intimately. ‘You should show me more respect when offering me wine.’

He struck Thomas a blow to the shoulder with the flat of his hand, as a friend might in a companionable gesture of good humour, but the impression stayed with me that there was more weight in it than friendship. Enough to make Thomas, slight at only twelve years, stagger a little as he kept his balance. Enough to make me march forwards with sharp words, except that Isabel took a tight hold of my skirts. Thomas kept his composure and brought the silver tray with two goblets for Isabel and myself. I could see his fingers grasping the curved rim, white as bone, determined to do the job well. Although I smiled reassuringly, murmured my thanks, he blinked with anxiety.

‘Now build up the fire.’

The clear order made Thomas scurry to manhandle the large logs on the hearth, aware that every movement was closely watched, carrying out his task with credit despite a clumsy nervousness. Then he straightened to await more orders.

‘Do you require any further service, my lord?’

‘You should kneel before me.’ It was gently said, simply a smooth reminder.

Thomas promptly did so. Head tilted, the young man surveyed him for a long moment. ‘Good. That is all.’

Thomas leapt to his feet and departed, more speed than elegance, with only a quick bow and glance in our direction, and that of pure shame. A ripple of unease touched me. I had never seen the Earl or the Countess strike even a servant in our household, much less a squire from a gentle family, as this courtier had done. Yet he had smiled, showing no evidence of temper or anger. I decided I had been mistaken. Thomas had been caught unawares, unbalanced, whilst the courtier’s words, his whole demeanour, had been pleasant enough.

Isabel and I were still standing just inside the door. The young man set down the goblet and approached. Once more he bowed, a gleam of white teeth. He was all courtesy and well-bred good manners. As I felt the warmth of his charm the little throb in my throat picked up its beat.

‘Make use of the library,
mesdames.
It should now be warm enough for your comfort.’ He spread his arms, engulfing us in a cloud of cloyingly sweet perfume, yet with an underlying more pungent aroma within it, as he indicated that we should move towards the fire. His eyes touched on mine, then passed on to Isabel. The smile deepened. ‘You must forgive me if I leave you. I have a pressing engagement…’

He walked out, leaving the door open as he strode along the corridor.

I was forced to admit the attraction. Any woman would. And yet why had he not acknowledged us? I knew, from the glint in his eye, that he had recognised who we were. As he must have known who Thomas was, that he was not a mere servant. The Neville bear and ragged staff was clear on his livery for anyone to see; it was not an unknown heraldic motif. I frowned at his departing back, at the arrogant swing of his cloak and the stylish peacock feathers in his cap. He should at least have shown us some respectful recognition, whatever the disagreements between our two families.

Isabel and I looked at each other. ‘And that, I presume, is the man who we would wish to put on the throne of England,’ she stated.

‘Yes. He’s very handsome.’ I spoke the first words to come into my head.

‘I can’t deny it.’ Isabel scowled as if she would like
to. ‘But do you think he would be a better candidate than Clarence?’

In all honesty I did not know. My cheeks heated again at the memory of his close, knowing scrutiny. We knew who he was without any introduction. His colouring, the rich auburn hair and fair skin, the mix of green and brown in his eyes—all the exact colouring of his mother. Even without the gleaming display of ostrich feathers in gold on his breast, we knew who he was.

Edward of Lancaster.

I spent the day—the following few days—thinking over that first meeting. I did not see him again—although I admit I looked for him in the vast rooms and rain-drenched gardens—but the impression remained strong with me. Physically beautiful, tall and athletic, well proportioned in leg and arm, the Prince would steal the eye, whether at a banquet or when engaged in the lists or in the disciplines of a tourney. I could imagine him—and did so in my many moments of idleness—riding forwards, all elegant grace and honed skill, armour gleaming, horse burnished but well-controlled under his hand, to claim a lady’s scarf to wear on his sleeve. I imagined myself in the role of presenting him with my favour, tucking it intimately beneath the plates of his shoulder guard, and his carrying it to victory, to the jealousy of every
other lady present, as the sun touched with red-gold his hair that curled and waved with silken extravagance when he finally removed his helm to receive the victor’s reward from my hands.

It was an engrossing image that filled my thoughts.

I sighed as the days passed without any recurrence of our meeting. Edward of Lancaster was handsome, astonishingly so, yet in no degree feminine. Any delicacy was offset by a stubborn chin, a masterful nose, whilst his eyes were fierce and challenging. I remembered that his fingers around the cup, as jewelled as his mother’s, had been long and slender. As for his presence…If his mother claimed little money to spend on her own appearance, it was not so with her son. Was all she had, all she could raise in loans, to be spent on him, to portray him as the Prince of Wales, England’s heir? The heavy collar set with fine sapphires that had graced his chest, the matching ring-brooch in his cap to secure the peacock feathers, would have outfitted a ship to take him across the Channel.

Then, because I was not given to dishonesty, guilt struck. How could I allow my inner eye to be ambushed by this unknown young man, simply on the strength of a brilliant smile? And I found myself drawing a mental comparison with Richard of Gloucester, placing the two side by side so that I could see them both in my mind. I did not like the result. At first Richard receded in that comparison. Less impressive
all round in form and figure, his colouring less brilliant, Richard faded alarmingly beside the glowing Prince Edward. Nor did Richard’s austere features win him any merit beside the handsome heir of Lancaster.

Was I as fickle a lover as I had accused Richard of being? The thought did not please me, but how easy it was to be blinded by Margaret’s son. If, when he smiled, his eyes had remained cool and thoughtful, what did that matter? If he had pretended ignorance of our state, was that important? Perhaps it was a product of living out his adult life in exile, on charity, his future uncertain, that made him circumspect. And to live under the dominion of Margaret of Anjou, as the sole object of her interest, into whom she poured every drop of her ambition—would that not have an effect on the man, making him careful and quick to hide his thoughts?

And yet he had struck Thomas. Richard, my Richard, would never act like that. I blinked against a quick rush of tears that took me unawares. I must not let myself dwell on the past. Everything had changed.
Mary of Burgundy’s Richard
would always act with respect and consideration. In my mind I could see him as I had on that last occasion at Warwick, intense and driven, his eyes dark and full of secrets. Did he pin my image next to that of the lovely Mary of Burgundy? If he did, I would be found wanting. The tears spilled over and I made no attempt to stop them.