Virgin Widow (31 page)

No doubt I was too ingenuous in my acceptance. I have no excuses.

‘Isabel. I am so glad to be home.’ I battled back the tears that pricked my eyelids, and the sudden guilt that I had ever doubted her. The past was gone. I was a widow in disgrace with no claim on anyone’s throne to stir her resentments. There was nothing to spoil our affection now.

We stood for a moment, hands clasped. My sister looked well, the strains of the weeks in France
smoothly erased. Life at Warwick with Clarence suited her, had restored her fair beauty, a more amenable nature. Perhaps there was the prospect of another babe to heal her griefs. And there, on the staircase, Margery waited, beaming widely her affection for me, as she had done all my life. Once again I was swept up in warm arms, crushed to her comfortable bosom. If I felt tearful before, I could have wept for the delight of it, no longer alone and beleaguered. I laughed shakily at my emotional reaction, inelegantly wiping the tears away with my hands.

‘Come. Come in, all is prepared for you,’ Isabel invited. ‘Your old rooms in the east wing are just as you will remember them. You’ll live here with me for as long as you wish.’

Or as long as Edward decrees.

There was the fly, dropped into the cup of ale to stir up endless circles. I was not free to dictate my own life. Deliberately I shook my head to dislodge the unpleasant thought. Tomorrow was soon enough for that.

‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

I shook my head.

‘You should be,’ Margery announced, fixing me with a gimlet stare. It was as if I were back in the nursery. ‘You’re too pale. That disgraceful gown—just look at it—’ she raised her hands in horror ‘—it hangs on you. You’re no better than a willow wand. We need to feed you up.’

I laughed. ‘I expect you will. I would not push aside the cook’s chicken pasties, if a little dish of them happened to appear at my elbow.’

Margery’s eyes twinkled. ‘Always your favourites! I’ll see to it.’ She bustled off, giving Isabel and myself some space, as perhaps I had intended.

‘Do you wish to sit for a little?’ Isabel asked, solicitous of me, as if I were a guest.

‘I’d rather stand and walk for a while,’ I replied drily. ‘I would not recommend travelling by litter to anyone. But Clarence insisted.’

‘He would think it best to preserve your privacy.’

‘And anonymity?’

‘Yes. Of course. Until everything is settled. Your unfortunate Lancastrian connections will soon be smoothed over.’

As were yours and Clarence’s? Was it easy to smooth
them
away? Was the Earl’s death part of the payment?
It would be more than churlish to ask so I did not. Life with Margaret had at least taught me to guard my tongue and not blurt out the first thought that came into my head. Meanwhile Isabel waved aside all difficulties as if they were a cloud of summer midges. ‘Come, then, and walk in the garden by the river. There’ll be warmth there still.’

So we did, arm in arm, whilst I admitted to being taken aback. I had not expected this generosity. Isabel babbled on with comments and enthusiasms on her plans for her future and mine.

‘You’ll stay with me until the King decides,’ she confirmed my earlier thought, but seemed to find no difficulty with it. ‘I expect he’ll want to have you married again soon. You’ll have to become resigned to being used to catch and hold a wayward supporter for Edward.’ She must have seen my grimace. ‘It needn’t be so bad. Let’s pray he chooses someone young and at least attractive. Until then we shall enjoy each other’s company. We shall be settled in London for Christmas and Twelfth Night…’

I let her ramble on, commenting and nodding as demanded, wondering all the time when she would touch on more personal subjects. They stood between us, insubstantial as ghosts, yet potent and tangible. They could not be blotted out for ever. It was not until we sat in a walled corner where honeysuckle was coming into bloom, where some residual warmth lingered to tease the perfume from the lilies that grew in profusion. The sun had gone, but the air was heavy, enticing the first bats to dart and swoop after invisible prey.

‘Anne…I’m sorry about the Prince. Whatever our differences, I would not have had it end like that.’

‘No.’ Now that she had opened the forbidden casket of pain and loss, I discovered that I did not know what to say to her. That I despised him and feared him in equal measure, that I was grateful beyond words to be freed from that unhappy household.
I could not help thinking that Isabel was far more accommodating of my presence now that I was no longer a Princess, no longer a rival to her own bright visions of the future. With Edward’s son still an infant in arms, Clarence’s power in the realm would be prime. And so Isabel could afford to be generous with her consolations. Then I took myself to task for my ill will. Cynicism was not an attractive trait and I would not cultivate it.

‘I can’t talk about it yet,’ I managed gruffly. ‘The last weeks have been a time I wish to forget.’

‘Then we shall.’ In cheerful agreement, she stood. ‘Let’s go back in. It grows chill.’

So she still would not touch on the matter close to my heart. Well, if she would not, I would. I remained seated as Isabel stood, looking up at her, marvelling at her ability to close her mind to anything that threatened to stir her complacency. I might have accused her of being superficial—except that I thought that she was not. My suspicions returned, that this was a carefully constructed ploy to achieve some ends not yet disclosed to me.

‘I have to talk about the Earl and Countess.’

‘As you wish.’ Unwillingly, she sank back to my side, expression carefully guarded. ‘What is there to say?’

‘I am told that our father is buried at Bisham.’

‘Yes.’

No more, no less. There was a tightening of the
muscles in Isabel’s jaw. She did not want to talk about it, that much was plain. ‘Have you been there?’

‘No. Not yet.’

Not ever,
I suspected. ‘Why not?’

‘He died a traitor.’

‘He died bravely in battle!’

Isabel hitched a shoulder.

Clarence’s defection was to blame for his death!
My mind might spell it out but I could not say it, not unless I wished to destroy our newly patched relationship with one blow. I let it drop, picked up another thread. ‘The Countess is still at Beaulieu.’

‘I know.’ A trace of impatience.

‘Why does Clarence not allow her to come here? Surely there would be no difficulty?’

Isabel hesitated. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her folded hands curl into the embroidered overhang of her sleeve. ‘Clarence thinks it is better that she stay where she is. She’s safe and not in any discomfort out of the public eye.’

‘Do you expect her to stay in the Abbey for the rest of her life because it hides her from public view? Why should she not live here, in seclusion if necessary? Is it Edward who resists? Can Clarence not persuade Edward?’ I could not work through the layers. Why should it matter where she lived? The Countess was hardly preparing to lead an army against Edward. ‘Why does she need to remain in sanctuary
at Beaulieu, Isabel? Edward is hardly likely to execute her, is he?’

Isabel shrugged again, relenting only under my persistence. ‘No, he won’t. And I think Clarence will try, once the country is at peace again. It is just thought to be better that she remain there for now. As Warwick’s widow it might stir passions again if she returned to Court.’

‘But we are Warwick’s daughters!’ There was no logic here.

‘Anne…’

‘What, Isabel?’

She sighed. ‘It is, after all, the Countess’s choice to remain at Beaulieu.’

‘Have you heard from her?’

‘A letter to me—to intercede for her. To persuade Edward not to confiscate the Beauchamp inheritance from her.’

The inheritance. So was the inheritance the problem? I could not imagine why it should be. ‘But why should he? The Countess is not legally responsible for her husband’s treachery. Why should her own personal inheritance be threatened?’ I frowned.

‘I don’t know.’

‘The Beauchamp-Despenser inheritance should eventually come to us, as it was always intended, as joint-heiresses. Is that not so?’

‘Yes…no! I don’t know!’

I watched my sister react to my questioning. Uncomfortable, on her guard against me, her eyes hooded by her fair lashes. ‘Is there some difficulty, Isabel? Is Edward planning to disinherit the Countess?’

‘It has been talked of,’ she replied carefully, eyes on tight-clasped fingers. ‘Edward has his own plans to which I am not privy.’ Then, apparently with effort, she looked up at me, a plea in every line of her face. ‘There is no problem, Anne. Clarence will always guard our best interests, you must believe that. Let us not talk politics. It will only ruin and divide. I beg of you.’ Then with the return of a sharp edge I knew well. ‘Why do you always have to be so suspicious and spoil things? There
is
no problem!’

I tried to read between the words she refused to speak. There was something here. Or then…perhaps I was mistaken and there was nothing. Perhaps just the aftermath of rebellion and division. I let it go—for now.

‘Forgive me, Isabel. It comes of living with Queen Margaret for so long, where it was wise not to trust anyone. I think I’ve caught the habit. We’ll talk of pleasanter things…’

We stood, Isabel taking instant refuge in smiles and good humour. ‘Far more pleasant! We need to discuss your appearance.’ Arm around my waist, she tugged on my sleeve. ‘That garment, for one, can be consigned to the midden. You look like a camp follower! Do you have anything suitable to wear that
does not carry the mud of every road in the west of England?’

I cast my mind over my meagre possessions. How ridiculous to think that I, who had been a Princess, could now pack everything I owned into one small travelling coffer. ‘No. And far worse than mud! You don’t want to know! Your kitchen servants are dressed better than I.’ I could not tell her of the tortuous journeys, hour after hour on horseback, to evade Edward. The flight from battle. The horror of Tewkesbury in the aftermath, scenes that still haunted my dreams. I could not speak of any of that. Perhaps in time I would.

Oblivious, satisfied that the difficult subjects had been temporarily buried, Isabel steered me back along the paths towards the living quarters. ‘Then you must borrow some of mine until we can remedy your lack. If you are to appeal to a new husband…’ There was the mention of marriage again. My attention caught, held, considered, until Isabel dragged my thoughts back. ‘And here is Margery doubtless to summon you to a feast. Consider yourself a goose being fattened for Twelfth Night.’ My sister pinched my waist, an affectionate gesture. ‘She’ll not be satisfied before you are plump and comely, and the seams on your new dresses strain!’

She hugged me close, laughed, so that I felt warm and enclosed in family love again. She was my sister and perhaps we could be happy together. As long as we did not touch on sensitive subjects.

M
Y
days at Warwick as Isabel’s guest settled into the easy routine of summer. For me it was a confused insubstantial time, a sort of healing I suppose, when I confess I deliberately turned my mind from both past and future, from everything outside the safe walls of the castle. The fear and anguish of battle, of flight and death receded into a vague existence that seemed to have nothing to do with me. The Prince was part of a different life from which I distanced myself. I
would
not think of it. Nor would I allow myself to consider the next unknown chapter in my life. I would remain here in my family home. I would stroll and ride, read, stitch and enjoy the balm of music. I would not admit to desperate boredom or the times when my thoughts escaped my will and strained towards London and what the Plantagenet brothers might be doing there. I convinced myself I no longer had an interest in politics and power; the government of the country
would continue quite well without me. Not even the death of old King Henry in the Tower could move me. He had been struck down by a fatal melancholy, so the official account proclaimed, on being told of his son’s death. The unofficial rumours were far more interesting. Assassination, whispered some. Richard of Gloucester, murmured those who claimed to be informed. The news was quick to reach us at Warwick.

Did Richard have a hand in it? Quite possibly, I thought, recalling his fearsome authority at Tewkesbury. Most likely, I acknowledged, since I no longer knew of what he was capable. I considered it, but briefly and dispassionately, then buried the whole matter, refusing to allow so monstrous an idea to worm its way through my deliberate distancing. I closed my emotions off from everything that might touch my heart.

Isabel mentioned my remarriage at regular intervals. I saw her plan. If she planted the seeds and nurtured them, I would grow accustomed to the idea. I was biddable and amazingly amenable to her gossipy suggestions. Even Margery raised her brows at my unnatural compliance as if waiting for me to break out into habitual sharpness of tongue and observation. I did not. I was not sufficiently interested. Richard was never mentioned in Isabel’s parading of suitable husbands. I did not even bother to consider why not, but remained sunk in lethargy, wilfully rejecting all
that might distress or resurrect the pain. Until a conversation jolted me out of my introspection.

It developed as a result of one of Clarence’s flying visits between the north and London, a matter of hours and mostly spent in private words between himself and Isabel. I thought nothing of it and kept to my room. It was not my concern.

‘Well? What did he have to say?’ I walked in on Isabel as he departed, without any real interest in the answer. Until I realised that she was doing her clumsy best to hide the tears that blotched her cheeks. ‘Isabel…What’s wrong?’ Immediately I was beside her, my arm around her shoulders as she scrubbed furiously with her palms.

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No.’

‘Was it something Clarence said?’

‘No, no…Nothing like that.’ Her smile was heartbreaking, her pale skin mottled and red. ‘His news was good—we should join him in London soon…’

I would not accept that. ‘Something has made you sad…’

‘It’s nothing! Have I not said?’ Suddenly the delicate friendship that had developed over the weeks fell away as she extricated herself from my embrace. ‘Just a matter between husband and wife.’

‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’ Seeing the set of her lips, I retreated.

Meanwhile Isabel picked up her stitching and a little silence descended on the sun-filled room. Respecting her mood, I turned the pages of a book of poetry, but found the insipid theme of romance did not hold my attention. Nor did I think that her mind was on the choice of colour for the overstitched leaves that would entwine artistically along the length of the embroidered belt. The comparative merit of red or gold was not a reason for the tight indentation at the corner of her lips.

‘Anne…’ Confirming this, she looked up from her stitches, with the impression that she had come to a decision. ‘Have you perhaps thought of marriage again…?’

Not this again. I did not try to hide a sigh. ‘No. I don’t think of it. And certainly not without a husband in the near prospect.’

‘Do you wish to marry again?’

‘Not today, for sure!’ I tried for a little humour to dispel the unaccountable edginess in my sister. ‘Besides, will not Edward settle it? No point in worrying over it until he has.’

‘I just wondered if it was distasteful to you.’

‘Well, I am now of an age. And as a widow I can give my own consent or refusal if I find the man unpalatable. Don’t worry…’ I smiled ‘…I’ll not be pushed into some desperate misalliance. Unless he is young, handsome and extremely wealthy, I shall say no.’

‘Yes, of course you will.’ Momentarily anxious, Isabel pasted an encouraging smile back in place. ‘It’s just…well, there is another alternative. If you decide that marriage is not to your taste…’

‘Hmm?’ I was no longer really listening. I turned a page. Another paean to the delights of love for me to yawn over, until Isabel reached out to close her hand over mine. I looked up.

‘I am considering establishing a convent. As our ancestors did with their patronage at Tewkesbury. I am of a mind to do the same.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you rejected remarriage—
you
could enter the convent.’

‘What? A nun?’ My brain was now engaged, book discarded.

‘You could take the veil. It would keep you out of the affairs of men if you did not choose to be given in marriage for political reasons, and it would give you considerable autonomy. With the prospect of becoming the Prioress eventually. You might enjoy it.’

‘Enjoy
it? I doubt it very much!’

Don’t let them persuade you to go into a convent.

The written words leapt suddenly, strongly into my mind.

‘Don’t be hasty. Take a little time to think about it.’ The sweetness of Isabel’s smile was an essay in persuasion.

My docility lessened by degrees. ‘I don’t need time! I think I don’t care for it. I think you must be out of your mind to suggest it!’

‘Consider your authority as the Lady Prioress, backed by Neville money and consequence.’

‘Consider me as a nun, Isabel! Have you lost your wits? Me taking an oath of obedience!’ Knowing me as she had all her life, I could not believe that she would make such a suggestion. There was a sudden vision of myself in dark robes and wimple, my freedom curtailed, my life one of penance and prayer, with a need to guard my tongue and conform to the rules of the order. I stared at her aghast.

‘Would it be so very bad?’

‘Yes!’

‘What’s this? The Lady Anne to take the veil?’ Margery, entering the room with my cloak—which I had mislaid somewhere—over her arm to overhear the final remarks, lost no time in giving her own opinion. ‘An unlikely prospect.’

‘Isabel thinks I would make an acceptable Lady Prioress,’ I remarked, brows raised in her direction. And that little beat of fear in my throat.

Don’t let them persuade you…

‘Does she, now? I can’t think of anyone less suitable.’ Margery clicked her tongue against her teeth and scowled at my sister. ‘A good husband is what she wants.’

It seemed to me that it was on the tip of Isabel’s tongue to snap a short rude reply to Margery, but she
quickly covered it with another empty smile, hands raised in surrender. ‘Perhaps you are right. There’s no urgency or compulsion. I simply thought I would like a convent of my own founding, and for it to come under the guidance of my sister. Our own foundation, as the Despensers did at Tewkesbury. It seems a good idea.’

‘No. It doesn’t.’ I left her in no doubt.

‘Then it shall not be.’

As she applied her needle once more, as if we had not had the conversation, I felt a need to stand, to escape the little room.

‘It’s a fine day—too fine to remain indoors, and the poetry does not take my mind. I will ride out—through the water meadows.’

Isabel immediately put aside her embroidery. ‘I’ll go with you.’

‘There’s no need.’ Sharper than I intended.

‘I shall enjoy it as much as you.’

I was already marching towards the door. ‘If you wish.’

As we set out on a pair of lively horses, with servants to escort us and a pair of armed guards at our backs, it came to me in one of those strange moments of recognition. How could I have been so blind? One way or another, since the morning I had stood before King Edward at Coventry, I was never allowed to be alone.

Edward’s Court was in celebratory mood.

It had a purpose, of course—Edward was never
without purpose—to impress the King’s subjects as much as the interested foreign visitors with the Son of York’s ascendancy. Open-handed to an astonishing degree, Edward had put on a show of sumptuous magnificence, heavy with gold plate, exuberant with masques, banquets and dancing. By his side, her lovely face unlined in spite of her ordeals of past months, Queen Elizabeth presided over all with preening self-satisfaction.

‘Her smugness irritates me beyond measure,’ Isabel whispered in my ear.

‘I suppose she has cause.’ I had become more tolerant of late.

‘Because she has carried a son at last?’

In the face of Isabel’s ever-simmering resentment I kept silent. There was no sign of her falling for another child after the death of the infant off Calais. Any grief she still suffered was tightly controlled and she would not confide in me, but it was no surprise to me that she despised the fertile Queen with her three daughters and now a healthy son.

The little prince and heir, the infant Edward, made his first formal appearance in a carved oak cradle hung with gold tassels and crimson satin, from which the Queen lifted him in her arms to show him off, so that the same long-limbed, golden beauty as his father could be noted and admired.

‘He’s beautiful, a worthy heir,’ I murmured tactlessly.

‘Do you think so?’

Another source of bitterness, that this babe had ousted Clarence from his position as heir to his brother. ‘Clarence will never wear the crown, Isabel. You must accept it.’ Was I unfeeling? I was honest. Others might have watched their words.

‘There’s no need to sound so thoroughly
satisfied!’

My sympathies dissipated further. ‘I’m not. Why should it matter to me how many sons the King might have? Or to you? Clarence is powerful in his own right. What more do you want, Isabel? He now has half our father’s Neville land. Isn’t that enough for you and for him?’ I found it difficult to believe that my sister would be so grasping. After the Earl’s death the King had divided the Neville lands between Clarence and Gloucester, and Clarence as the elder had grasped the major portion.

Regardless of our surroundings, Isabel turned a furious look on me. ‘Clarence deserves more! He deserves to—’ Then quickly drew a breath on what he might deserve. ‘It doesn’t matter. Now is not the time to talk of this.’

There would never be a good time in my opinion. A bright flush stained Isabel’s skin from the neckline of her gown to the roots of her hair, and I was relieved to let it go, turning back to the happy scene before me where the Queen beamed her delight. The baby fussed and waved its tiny fists whilst Edward
chuckled and smoothed his large hand over its wispy hair before signalling to the musicians to strike up for a round dance. With such energy behind it, the festivity was quite as lively and exciting as I recalled from past days. I might have viewed it all through jaundiced eyes, but it was difficult when the King was in the mood for high-spirited dancing and foolish games.

I admit to enjoying myself.

Except that the Duke of Gloucester was at Court, and was keeping his distance. It was as if we existed in separate circles. They might brush together or fleetingly overlap, but nothing to invite intimacy. We did not exchange more than two dozen words and the customary cool acknowledgement when it was necessary for good manners. He would bow over my hand, precise and graceful as ever—and as responsive to my presence as an oak plank—whilst I would curtsy with a profound elegance that even Margaret of Anjou would fail to find fault with. I had learnt some lessons with perfection at Margaret’s Court.

‘Welcome to Court, Lady Anne. I see you are restored to good health.’

‘I am.’ Good health, indeed! No longer looking thin and worn as I had when last he set eyes on me? Was that a deliberate slight on my appearance? Vanity caused me to clench my teeth. And if he was not prepared to make any further effort, then I was certainly
not going to demand his attention. Not that I wanted it, I reminded myself when my heart sank and my mood became less than festive. If he had cast me adrift, it was his choice and I wished him well of his future bride, whoever she might be. If it was necessary to discipline myself against allowing my gaze to slide across the room to where he was invariably the centre of attraction, it was of course to be expected. He was much in demand. Royal brother, royal counsellor, Constable of England. Unmarried and personable. What woman in the room did not have an eye to him? I didn’t! By the Virgin, I wouldn’t! I would not give him a moment’s thought!

I broke my vow on only one occasion and that was at the King’s playfully malicious intervention. I saw the mischief in his face as he ordered the minstrels to strike up for a ceremonial progression and tugged on the Queen’s hand to lead her into the formal steps. By chance I had been standing with her, engaged in some stilted conversation, but on her husband’s invitation the Queen willingly agreed to dance.

‘I might regret this,’ she murmured to me, acknowledging Edward’s enthusiastic style, her delicately arched brows raised in self-mockery, but she allowed herself to be persuaded, whilst Edward’s smile flashed into a grin as he saw the opportunity.

‘Gloucester!’ he hailed his brother. ‘Here’s her
Highness the Princess, without either a husband or a partner to keep her company. Come to her rescue. Dance with her.’

The nerves in my belly beat like the wings of trapped butterflies. I would not dance with him. I would make some excuse…