Virgin Widow (20 page)

‘Not yet, I think.’ Margaret stood again, smoothed her skirts and beckoned for her ladies to follow as she walked to the door. ‘I shall pray on it. How do I know that England is safe for us even now? That there will be no rebellion in York’s absent name? It is too soon, my son.’

‘But, madam…’

I did not stay to listen. I could imagine the direction of the argument. Instead I hung back and waylaid the messenger before he got to the door.

‘Is the Earl in good health?’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Thank God!

‘Have you spoken with the Countess yet?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Do so. She’ll wish to know without delay.’ And then I asked what I needed to know in my heart. The one unknown fact that had spoiled all my pride in the Earl’s achievement. ‘And Edward of York’s brother. Where is his Grace of Gloucester?’ I dared to ask. ‘Is he too alive?’

‘Yes, my lady. He is fled with his brother.’

I exhaled with relief and let him go.

I would think of this when I was alone.

Louis flung an impressively sealed document on to the table before the Queen, then stood glaring at it, as if daring it to vanish before his eyes.

‘There it is!’ he growled. ‘Finally—the dispensation. His Holiness would try the patience of a saint. Let’s get this marriage finalised at last.’

It was almost the end of the year. The Queen acquiesced—she dared do no other in the face of Louis’s determination—and I became Lady Anne, Princess of Wales, within the week. In Amboise once again, in the austere grandeur of the royal chapel, I became wife to Edward of Lancaster.

It was the strangest of events. Neither the father of bride nor groom could be present. The family of the bride, given the pre-eminence of the Nevilles in English politics, was poorly represented. There was no need for me to search for familiar faces in the congregation that gathered at such short notice. There were none. Only the Countess of Warwick and the Duchess of Clarence, my mother and sister, to witness my elevation to the dignity of Princess. The groom, on the other hand, was supported by his mother, Queen Margaret of England, and a whole array of relatives from the royal family of Anjou. Even the Queen’s own father, King Rene, had emerged from
his solitary retreat in one of his chateaux along the Loire. It made for an august crowd on this cold winter’s morning, furred and bejewelled, as bright as a flock of iridescent starlings in the pale sun. Louis wanted it to be well witnessed that the alliance between Queen Margaret and the Earl of Warwick was sanctified through their children.

I presumed his suspicions were as sharp as mine.

I have a plan…
As Louis had flung down his gauntlet before the Queen, I had remembered those words, uttered confidentially to the Prince. A plan to escape this undesirable union. It was now surely an irrelevance, whatever the plan had been. England was all but in her grasp and here I stood before the altar. She could not renege now.

The rich over-layering of cloth, heavy with gold thread and satin embroidery, pressed down on my shoulders, but I saw no omen there. The slide of it against my skin was sensuously luxurious, a symbol of my new status. Softly warm, the fur nestled against my neck and wrists. And so I had the ermine that Isabel had so coveted. My hair was loose on my neck and shoulders as befitted a maiden, the whole lightly covered by a simple transparent veil. Simple it might be, but the filet that held it close was of glittering, engraved gold.

My betrothed was finer than I. Nothing short of magnificent. The burnished auburn of his hair might
strike a discordant note with the black and red of his heraldic ostrich feathers, but every inch of him proclaimed royalty. Queen Margaret had left nothing to chance. The cloth of gold of his close-fitting tunic announced to all that here was a royal Prince merely waiting to come into his own. If the cloth was not sufficiently eye-catching, the jewels were. The gold chain, the rings, the ring brooch that anchored the swathes of velvet in his hat, rivalled the splendour of the stained windows when the winter sun cast its blessing on us. The future should have beckoned as bright as the sapphire pendant that glittered on his breast as he turned to me to make his commitment before God. And tomorrow my own Neville coat of arms, the bear and the ragged staff, would be matched with those ostrich feathers of Lancaster.

Then it was over. The Prince’s hand was hot on mine, gripping hard as if he wielded the hilt of a sword in battle. The heavy ruby ring he had pushed on to my finger dug painfully into my flesh as he squeezed even harder in triumph, as he turned me to face the congregation.

Can I love this man who is now my husband? Can I respect him? Will I find friendship with him?

The questions crowded in and I could find no answer enough to comfort me. I could not love him, but perhaps we could build some bond between us. How elegant and courteous he was, all gentle good humour
and polished manners for the occasion. How bright the pleasure in his face when he smiled at me. Gone was the sharp temper and intolerance and I was reassured. Now that the tide was swimming in his favour, what need for anything but gratification? When the Prince was King there would be no need for petty frustrations and bitterness. He proceeded to smile benignly on all who wished us well, pressing his lips to my fingers and telling me that I was the fairest lady in the whole of France. It might not be true, but I loved the gesture.

Making our way formally through the assembled ranks, the drag of the cloak hampering as the assembled courtiers sank to their knees, I glanced across to where the Countess stood. Her head was bent, her eyes cast down. I did not know what she thought of my astonishing advancement. I had no difficulty reading the hostility in my sister’s fierce stare. The distance between us drove a renewed stab of loneliness into my heart. All that I had taken for granted through my life—the closeness, the easy affection—was at an end. Nor would it be replaced by Queen Margaret, who would stand in the role as my mother. Pray God the Prince would care for me so that I was not totally bereft. He would not love me, but friendship could be enough.

‘Hurry!’ Lady Beatrice advised. ‘I wager the Prince will not be willing to wait long before putting his prowess to the test!’

The door closed behind us, shutting out the usual round of coarse and ribald jokes that men enjoyed at the expense of the lack of experience and ability of the bride and groom. I had heard it all before at other feasts, at other marriages. But not when I was the one whose virginity was causing such interest.

A bedchamber had been prepared for the bridal night with a sumptuousness that would have overpowered me if my mind had been fit to register it with more than a passing glance. The vast bed was made up with the finest linen, the bed hangings swooping and billowing from their carved restraints and embroidered with gold-stitched French fleur-de-lys. A fire simmered cheerfully in the hearth. And if thirst and hunger assailed us through the long night, there was a flagon of hippocras and a platter of nuts and fruit and sweetmeats. My throat dry, I could not imagine having appetite for either.

‘He was ever keen to demonstrate his manhood.’ Margaret’s ladies were as bawdy as the men. ‘Yesterday the tilt yard, today a softer opponent…’

I swallowed against what I could not deny was a dart of fear as I was stripped of my finery, twisted and turned as if I were a doll, the velvet and ermine, even my linen shift, laid aside and my hair brushed into a gleaming curtain over my naked shoulders. So at length I sat dwarfed by the huge bed, unable to relax against the feather pillows, the linen clutched to my
chin to hide my lack of womanly curves, with an empty expanse beside me for the Prince. Dried flowers and herbs had been scattered beneath me to promote fertility and a successful joining although the brittle sprigs of lavender and rosemary seemed to have no property but to irritate my skin. The Grand Vicar of Bayeux who had performed the bridal ceremony stood in pompous readiness to sprinkle us, the fortunate couple, with holy water and sacred words.

All I needed now was the bridegroom.

I tried to imagine the coming hours. I did not fear him, I decided. And I knew what to expect. The Countess had been sufficiently explicit.

‘Do you suppose he’s drinking himself into a state of courage?’

I hoped not. One of us would need sharp wits this night. I prayed fervently that the Prince was not as ignorant or as unskilled as I. The observations became more malicious as boredom threatened and the ladies began to yawn behind their elegant hands. ‘What’s keeping him? Has he found more accomplished entertainment for the night? Some Court whore to complete his tuition.’ Then, ‘Perhaps he’s waiting on the Queen. Maybe she’ll insist on accompanying him and remaining for the event.’ And finally
sotto voc
e, ‘She supervises every other breath he takes! And much else!’

I knew their intent. To embarrass, to unnerve by reminding me of my lack of experience. Even to reduce
me to a bout of terrified hysterics. They had never been my friends and my new status would not change that—but I would not be cowed by them.

‘The Prince needs no Court whore to guide him,’ I remarked with an ingenuous smile. ‘
I
shall ensure the prince has good practice tonight.’

‘Remember though that you must rise early tomorrow for the journey to Paris. Do you think Edward will be
up
betimes?’

With a knowing smile I intercepted the glance. ‘Definitely he will! I intend to keep him up all night.’

‘And you a virgin! Do you have the appetite for it?’

‘
I
do. I hope the Prince is hungry.’

The resulting laughter was no longer at my expense. I was now wife to Prince Edward and this would be the first time for me to be quite alone with him, with myself as the sole object of his notice. Holy Virgin! I prayed again that we would find some measure of communication.

A roar of coarse mirth from the other side of the door blasted our ears. The halt of many feet. The clatter of metal on stone as someone dropped a drinking vessel, followed by a string of curses. Then with a cursory knock against the panels to unnecessarily advertise their presence, the door was thrown open.

Prince Edward had arrived, attired in a chamber robe of magnificent hue. Smiling, his face as striking
as the crimson and gold, full of wine and good humour. Yet not, I thought, too overcome, unlike Clarence who was all but carried to Isabel’s bed on the occasion of their marriage. From somewhere in the depths of his selfish heart, the Prince my husband found the sensitivity to slam the door back in the prurient faces. For a moment silence fell in the room, soft as a fall of snow. The sounds of merriment receded as the revellers returned drunkenly to the scene of the feast.

Edward approached with leisurely steps. My fingers curled into the linen, even as I tried to prevent myself clutching the material to my flat chest. Edward seemed totally unaware of my rioting nerves. His eyes as they travelled over my face, over as much of my figure as he could make out beneath the covers, were just a little hazy, but not beyond what might be expected. He halted at the side of the bed, bowed deeply, then captured my hand, lifting it lightly to his lips.

‘My sweet, delicious bride. How lovely you are. You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

‘No, my lord,’ I managed on a croak and a gasp as a wave of the Prince’s favourite perfume washed over me. I swear he had drenched himself in it, the cloying sweetness of the frankincense, but with the underlying tone even stronger than usual.
What is it?
I resisted the urge to sneeze.
Civet! More cat than civet!
It revolted my senses.

‘I shall make you my own, my sweet love, with all care and gentleness.’

How thoughtful of my nervousness. I should have been seduced by his soft voice and gentle fingers, the featherlike touch of his lips. Surely this could not be an unpleasant experience at the Prince’s considerate hands? But the constriction around my chest tightened even further. I did not trust him.

Releasing my fingers, he walked carefully around the bed to his own side, casting away the furred and embroidered night robe to reveal his neatly muscled body. His chest almost hairless, he looked no more than a young boy, yet paused to draw the appreciative looks of the assembled room. I tried not to let my gaze linger on the soft arrowing of red-gold hair on his belly, at his manhood that was impressively erect despite the wine and the very public show, but with hands on hips the Prince invited admiration from all present. So I looked until, satisfied, the Prince flung back the counterpane, hoisted himself up on to the high mattress and settled himself comfortably next to me, beckoning to the Grand Vicar to complete the ceremony whilst I swallowed against the suffocating perfume, and fear in equal measure, as the cleric promptly raised the phial of holy water and began to shake the drops on to the bed, on to Edward and myself, walking round us so that not an inch might go unblessed. In a sudden feverish wave, I felt an urge to laugh that we might actually be drenched before he was quite satisfied.

The priest raised his hand in a final blessing. The words rolled over us, heavy and sonorous, as he pronounced the hopes of the whole Lancastrian cause.

‘God bless you, my lord Prince. And your fair wife. May you prove loyal to each other and endlessly fruitful for the House of Lancaster. May the glorious heir of Lancaster be created from your loins this night, my lord Prince. As God wills it. Amen.’

The Countess, with a reassuring smile, leaned close. ‘God bless you, daughter,’ she whispered in my ear, echoing the cleric. ‘Hold tight to your courage.’

Courage! Easy to say! I quaked inwardly, fingers like claws in the bed-linen, as the disloyal thought came to me that I did not want the Prince to touch me. Repugnance filled me as, now that the moment had come, I imagined his hands on my body, stroking, exploring…I closed my eyes against the image—as I deliberately closed my mind against any image of Richard that threatened.
He
had no place in this cold marriage bed. For better or worse I was the Prince’s wife and must accept my duties.