Virgin Widow (23 page)

An impression, soft as goose-down, brushed my mind. It seemed to me a very female jealousy, of a woman who would keep her hold over a man. Then it was gone.

‘Your position at my Court is not beyond my power to dictate, Mistress Neville!’ Margaret continued after a moment. Her scorn scalded me. ‘You will learn that at your peril.’

‘I am Princess of Wales,’ I challenged her, marvelling at my temerity.

‘Perhaps you are, madam. But for how long?’

I could not mistake the threat, held like Damocles’s sword over my head.

I learned that I must take care. And with the Prince, too, who leapt from lover to adversary within a handful of minutes. When the mood took him, he was not beyond curling his arm around my waist, kissing me in full public view. Yet just as frequently the Prince snapped and snarled, enraged when the weather closed in and he could not stir from the palace. I was left standing in one of the audience chambers, alone, as he brushed off my attempts to engage him a game of chess.

‘I won’t play. I should be in England!’

‘Then why not go? Tell the Queen that you intend
to sail, with or without her blessing. Louis will support you with men and ships.’ I felt like slapping him as I might a tiresome younger brother.

He stared at me through narrowed eyes as if he suspected some evil behind my suggestion. ‘My mother says your father is still not to be trusted.’

‘What will make the difference?’ I snapped back. ‘What will convince her that all’s well? Henry has the crown. What more can the Earl do?’
I doubt anything would stir her to action, not even if he brought Edward of York’s head on a platter to her feet, like John the Baptist’s head to Herod!
I bit back the words before I could damn myself.

‘The Earl must come himself, to France, to escort her back,’ the Prince stated. ‘With a fleet and an army of loyal English soldiers as is her due.’

‘Why should he do that?’ I tried to hide my amazement, but could see the tightening of Edward’s muscles at my raised brows, the descent of the thundercloud. ‘Could he not meet her on the coast, at Dover, and just escort her to London?’

‘No. He must come
here
for her!’

As Edward’s scowl deepened, I retreated into soft words, my hand on his arm. ‘Edward…perhaps it will be so. But until then—come and play chess with me.’

‘No. I won’t. I don’t want that.’ He turned on me, thrusting my hand away as if I were his worst enemy.
‘I think my mother the Queen sees the truth of it. I cannot trust any of you. If Monsieur de Warwick betrays us, watch your step, Mistress Neville.’

‘My father will never betray you,’ I retaliated. ‘And I am no longer Anne Neville. I am your wife!’

‘So you are—but destitute and friendless. What value are you to me?’

‘I don’t fear you.’ I held his eyes with mine.

‘You should. You’ll not speak to me like that!’ His eyes blazed with sudden ungovernable temper, his sudden grasp around my wrist, fast as a snake, hard. ‘I’ll not have it.’

He flung my hand away. I let him walk away from me, aware of a building anxiety. What would life be like for me with this man? Wearying in the extreme, I decided, as I tried to predict his moods, his selfish demands. I could never trust him, even if I encouraged him to trust me. The lack of control in the Prince, I acknowledged, often frightened me.

When I eventually returned to my bedchamber it was flooded with sunshine—but I was met with silence. It brought me to a halt in the doorway, focused my attention. Where was the trill and chatter of my finches to greet me, the rays warm on their feathers? And I saw that the door to the cage was open—had they been released by some mischance?

I knew. Oh, I knew!

Of course they had not flown—that would have been too easy and would have given me only a passing regret. I knew what I would find. I approached, anticipation slowing my steps, until there was nothing I could do but look into the cage. There they lay, tumbled in the bottom, their colouring no longer bright, their eyes clouded. No ordinary death, this. Their necks were twisted to an impossible angle, their feathers ruffled, their claws curling impotently. Such a simple manner in which to take revenge. To make me pay for my confrontation with the Prince.

This was Edward’s work. I knew it.

I learnt a hard lesson that day. Edward was not a younger brother to be cajoled or slapped. Inaction was driving him to vitriolic spite against any who questioned him or stood in his way. Margaret had spoiled and indulged him, his desires never checked or curbed as a young horse broken to the bit and saddle, but this mindless killing of my finches went far beyond that. I stroked the ruined feathers, my teeth buried in my bottom lips as I admitted how dangerous the Prince had become.

I did not weep. I could not. My emotions seemed to be frozen. When I lifted the cage down and handed it to Beatrice to dispose of the bodies, I met her gaze in silent defiance. She knew as well as I, but we did not speak of it. I mourned the birds in my heart,
saying nothing to the Prince about my distress. I thought he might enjoy it.

And Edward? He made no reference to them at all. Except for a bright smile in my direction across the width of a room when he saw me next. The glitter in his eye was full of malicious triumph.

Yes, I did fear him after all. That fear began to live with me day and night.

‘W
E
shall leave,’ the Queen, finally at the birth of the new year, announced to those of us gathered in her audience chamber. ‘We shall go to the coast. To be ready for the signal when it comes.’

And what signal would that be, your Majesty? The blaze of a comet through the heavens to herald our return?
I hid my jaundiced doubts behind a semblance of pleasure. But the rejoicing was premature. We did not sail from France until the second week of April. By which time all had turned sour, rancid as old cheese. Edward of York had returned to England, landing in the north, at Ravenspur, with fifty thousand crowns from the Duke of Burgundy in his pockets. Englishmen were not slow to rally to his banner.

‘We should have gone in January. Why did we wait?’ Edward, swooping between feverish elation and the darkest of despondency, tossed back yet another cup of wine, complexion unflatteringly mottled from the
excess alcohol. ‘Why would you not listen to me? We could have been entrenched in London before the Yorkist Bastard ever set sail.’

‘I do listen. Endlessly!’ the Queen snapped, on the defensive. ‘So be it! We sail within the week.’

‘At last, by God!’

‘I always act in your best interests, Edward. Do you doubt me? Come here.’

There was an unexpected softening in the pair of them. When I thought to see Edward stride intemperately from the room, instead he sank to his knees before the Queen, raising the hem of her robe to his lips. He looked up and their eyes met, their so-similar fair faces relaxing into a smile. The Queen reached forwards to let her knuckles trail gently down her son’s cheek. Whilst the Prince turned his head to brush his lips over her inner wrist. A caress as tender as a lover might employ…

My awareness snapped back to the past.

As Richard had once caressed me. As I had responded to him, back in the days of our early love at Westminster.

That awareness lurched sickeningly back to the present.

I made not one movement as I saw the moment before me between Queen Margaret and the Prince unfold and hang in the air, but horror must have
chased through my eyes. What had I seen here? I dared meet no one’s eyes in that overheated room. Or was it merely hot against my forehead from the pent-up emotion in that small space? My ribs felt clammy as a flush prickled over my skin.

‘Edward. My son, my King. Of course we shall sail for England…’

The Queen lifted his hand and pressed her lips in the centre of his palm.

The words, the gestures, came as the punch of a fist against my belly, a wave of nausea as I remembered the moments in the past when the closeness of mother and son could not be ignored. They crowded into my mind, image after image, mocking my previous ignorance. How could I not have seen? The close dependence of one on the other. The intimacy of the kisses that might be interpreted as more than those of respect, of affection. The barbed whispers of the Queen’s ladies on my wedding night. Margaret’s jealousy of any woman who would replace her in her son’s life. I swallowed hard against the bile that rose up in my throat. How effectively she had put a stop to the physical consummation of my marriage.

Eyes wide, breath a mere shallow flutter, I watched as Edward stood and the Queen rose to her feet to press her hand on his forearm, leaning against him a little. Intimate, possessive. The love of a mother for her
son? So I had thought, but not this. Not this! Knowledge crawled beneath my skin.

So this was the reason she would allow no other woman in Edward’s life. Unnatural, shameful, condemned by the teachings of the church and the mores of society as an abomination. To my mind there was little room for doubt.

‘When I am King of England, I will restore the crown to your head with my own hands, madam.’ Edward bent his head to brush his mouth over her cheek.

I pressed a kerchief to my lips.

The Queen snapped her gaze to me. ‘What’s wrong with you, girl?’

‘Forgive me, Majesty. The heat…’

Already discarding me, she waved me away, taken up with her beloved son who leaned to whisper in her ear.

I fled. Did I for the first time sense pitying looks from the Queen’s ladies? Or did they sneer, enjoying my discomfiture, the destruction of my innocence? I fled to the nearest garderobe and retched with dry heaves until my belly was sore.

She had intervened to keep us apart. She had forbidden me to walk alone with the Prince or discuss matters of high politics. I knew that she would remain a presence in my marriage until the day she—or I—died.

I retched again until I was weak and spent. Wiping the perspiration from my brow, I pulled myself to sit
upright against the wall in that noisome closet and forced myself to consider. Margaret had created a monster. Would she still be able to control him when he was King of England? I thought not.

I was certain
I
would not have the power to do so.

I dared not tell the Countess. What would I say to her when I had no proof, only suspicion? Was it an innocent affection that I had misread? I did not think so. I must deal with this myself. With nothing that I could either do or say to change my relationship with the Queen and the Prince I must tread a rigid line. From that moment of blighting revelation I vowed to keep a still tongue, to cultivate patience and self-control. I must be careful. Always watchful. Never provocative. Fiercely protective of my own frailty in this unhappy
ménage.

We sail within the week, Margaret had ordered. The spring storms had other ideas. For seventeen wearying days we were trapped in Dieppe by contrary winds. When we finally put to sea the heavy swell attacked the balance and the stomach. It was a vicious journey with little joy to expect in our homecoming. All in all it was enough to cast the whole party of us into the black pit of gloom along with the Prince.

But that, for me, in those days at Dieppe, was not the worst of it. Queen Margaret’s revulsion with me,
her undesirable daughter-in-law, plummeted to new depths, whilst the Prince decided that he despised his wife worse than the pox.

It was all Isabel’s fault. Or Clarence’s. Or perhaps it was mine if I were of a mind to be honest. Wherever the culpability lay, it was all set in motion by something as innocuous as a letter. And one that was not even written to me.

But I cannot forgive Isabel. On our arrival at Dieppe, she had shaken herself out of her lassitude and miseries as fast as a snake shedding its skin on a hot day. The Queen might stall and quibble, but my sister became amazingly single-minded now that home was almost within sight. It was as if the power of the grey waves, stormy and thundering against the harbour wall, had scoured her of all her self-pity and whipped her into action.

‘I can’t wait,’ she stated with unusual force, a return to the old Isabel with sharp words and snapping eyes. ‘I can’t tolerate this indecision whilst we hang on the Queen’s reluctance. I will sail to England as soon as a ship can be commandeered, in the first lull between storms.’

The Countess tried a dousing of common sense. ‘Isabel, you will not. We should cross together. This is no time for us to act independently.’ Then added, clearly uncomfortable, ‘Nor do we know what will meet us in the way of enemy forces when we do arrive.’

‘There’s no guarantee we shall ever stir from here.’ Isabel, petulant as ever. ‘It’s four months since Clarence and I were parted. I wish to go. I wish to go home. And I will.’

‘Where is Clarence? Can you safely meet up with him?’ I asked, amazed at this intransigence after months of weak tears and bad temper.

But Isabel lifted her shoulders, choosing not to address the
where.
‘Anything is better than staying here.’

‘Like falling into the hands of Yorkist troops?’ My mistrust deepening at her evasion. ‘You seem remarkably sanguine at the prospect.’

‘I need to be with Clarence.’

With a warning glance in my direction, the Countess demanded, ‘Why do you need to be with him specifically, Isabel?’

Hands deep in a box of folded clothing, an ideal way to hide any nervousness in my opinion, Isabel replied casually enough, ‘What other reason than that I am his wife?’ She continued to fold and smooth with innocent concentration. I noted her cool fair beauty, marvelling at her ability to retain her composure when I feared what was in her mind. I found the words springing to my lips before I could stop them.

‘What is Clarence doing, Isabel?’ Nor would I be put off when Isabel glared at me over her shoulder. ‘Something reprehensible, I warrant.’

‘Has something happened that I know nothing of?’ the Countess demanded, looking from one to the other.

‘That’s it!’ I knew immediately as my thoughts flew back to Angers, homing in on one little scene, as accurate as a falcon swooping on a fat pigeon—when Isabel had denied her husband’s treachery. ‘Clarence has decided to change sides, hasn’t he? In spite of all his vows of loyalty and trust…in spite of all
your
assurances, Isabel, that he would not consider betrayal! Clarence plans to betray the Earl and fall in with his brother. Perhaps he has already done so! Is that why falling into Yorkist hands gives you no fears?’ I made no attempt to hide my disgust.

Isabel’s composure showed signs of slipping. ‘Yes…no. I don’t know what he will do. But I won’t remain buried in this place!’

‘Isabel! What is this?’ In two long strides the Countess was with her, a fistful of Isabel’s velvet sleeve in her hand. ‘Why would he change sides? Edward will never forgive—’

‘He will! He’s promised. He’ll welcome Clarence back.’

‘Tell me, Isabel.’ I saw the cloth crease and crush as my mother’s fist tightened. ‘What do you know? Do you not see how fatally dangerous this could be for the Earl? For your
father!
And you would say nothing of it to me?’

Isabel’s pretty mouth settled into a familiar sulk.

‘I think you are making this up. I think you have no idea,’ the Countess stated with a shake of Isabel’s arm, no doubt hoping that it was so. ‘Why do you do it? Simply to be interesting and attract attention? For shame! How dare you make such pronouncements, tell such lies, when you know the Earl’s safety is my first concern.’ But I saw a flash of knowledge in Isabel’s eyes before she turned her face away. She did know. She knew exactly what her treacherous husband intended.

‘He’s been in touch with you again, hasn’t he?’ I accused. ‘Edward of York has been in touch with you.’

Isabel looked at me, then nodded as if she had decided that, between the three of us, honesty was the only course left to her. ‘Yes, he has. When he was still in exile in Burgundy. Edward has offered Clarence forgiveness if he will reconsider.’

‘I can’t believe that a daughter of mine has been engaged in nefarious negotiations that could bring death and dishonour to her own family.’ I had never seen the Countess so bitingly angry. ‘Nor can I believe that Edward has any intention of welcoming his brother back to the fold. He will use him, manipulate him—but forgive him? Clarence would be a fool to put his trust in Edward. And so would you!’

‘But it’s true,’ Isabel shot back. ‘I have proof. Look.’ From the bodice of her over-gown she drew two sheets of well-worn parchment. ‘Read them if you
must. They are quite authentic and Clarence did not doubt their content.’

With sharp movements expressive of her dismay, the Countess opened the first, read it rapidly. From Edward of York, it was short and to the point as I read it over her shoulder. If Clarence would agree to forsake Lancaster and Warwick, Edward would forgive him. If Clarence would make his retained forces available for his brother’s use, then Edward would cancel the attainder and restore to him his land and former positions at Westminster and in the King’s government. Comprehensive and enticing, I admitted, wiping away the sins of the past. A tempting offer to an ambitious man who had gambled on the wrong side and lost all.

‘Isabel…This could be disastrous.’

Isabel snatched the letter back and hid it within the folds of her gown. ‘It is good sense.’

‘What’s the other?’ I asked.

The Countess opened it. There was no superscription, a mere few lines and I did not need to read the signature as I took the letter from her. It was in Richard’s familiar angular fist. How forceful it was with its strong lines up and down, how persuasive, even though it made no additions to Edward’s request. I scanned the short sentences, almost able to hear his voice speaking them to his brother, forceful, without ornamentation. There was nothing to be gained at
Lancaster’s side. Come back, where he belonged by blood and inclination, and throw in his lot with York. All past disloyalties would be forgiven. There was a warmth there, a brotherly concern.

I look forward to the day when we stand together again under the banners of Plantagenet and York.

In that foolish moment, neither the words nor the sentiments mattered to me, only the fact that Richard had written them. That his hand had created this letter, his fingers, agile and capable, had wielded the pen as ably as they could wield a sword. Unobserved as my mother took issue with Isabel once more, I pressed the parchment between my palms as if I could absorb some essence of him into my blood.

‘So what did he say?’ the Countess demanded. ‘What reply did Clarence make to these treacherous offers?’

‘He said…’ Isabel bit her lips before the Countess’s wrath but gave no quarter. ‘He said he would join Edward when the opportunity presented itself. Which is now, when he is back in England. Can you not see? That I must be there with him.’

‘And what will you tell him—this so-noble husband of yours who cannot keep his sworn word?’ The bitter irony burned.

‘I will remind him of his debt to the Earl.’ Isabel stood her ground, although I thought she had difficulty in holding the Countess’s eye. ‘I will remind him of his loyalties to me, and to the Earl.
I
am no traitor.’

‘As if he would listen! I still say you should not go.’

‘I am determined.’

And short of locking her in her room there was nothing we could do but allow it. Isabel was her own mistress. She would make her own choices. A break in the weather that Margaret would not take, but that Isabel would. A cold, bleak leavetaking and Margery sent with her.