Читать книгу Virgin Widow - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 11

1462—Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire

DESPITE my lack of years, I knew that I was an important person. I had always known that I was important. I was told as much by my sister Isabel when I was six years old. Or at least she had informed me from her heady and condescending height of eleven years that I might be important, but not as important as she was. Which was a typical calumny by my sister. Stated with overwhelming conviction, but with imperfect knowledge and little truth.

Isabel was five years older than I. Five years is a long time at that age. So with all that wealth of experience and her acknowledged position as the elder child of the powerful Earl of Warwick, she lorded it over me. She was tall for her age with fine light hair that curled at the ends, fair skin and light blue eyes. She looked like our mother, and our mother’s father, Richard Beauchamp, so I was led to believe, whereas I favoured the Neville side, to my detriment as I considered the comparison between us. Slight and slimboned with dark hair—unfortunately straight—dark eyes and sallow skin that did me no favours in cold winter weather. It was generally accepted that I would not have my sister’s beauty when I was grown, nor would I grow very tall. I was small for my age and wary of Isabel’s sharp fingers that pinched and poked.

We had had an argument over the ownership of a linen poppet dressed in a fine Court gown fashioned from scraps of old damask. It had been stitched for us by Bessie, our nurse, with embroidered eyes, black as the fire grate, and a pout of berry-red lips. The hair had been fashioned of wool and was black and straight beneath her linen veil. Because of her resemblance, I claimed stridently that the poppet was mine, but the squabble ended as it usually did with Isabel snatching it from my hands and holding it out of reach.

‘You’re cruel, Isabel. It was given to me. It was made for me.’

‘It’s mine. I’m older than you.’

‘But that does not mean that you are cleverer. Or that the poppet is yours.’

‘It means I am more important.’

I glared, fearing that she might be right. ‘I don’t see why it should.’

Isabel tossed her head. ‘I am my father’s heir.’

‘But so am I.’ I did not yet understand the workings of the laws of inheritance. ‘My father is the Earl of Warwick, too.’

She sneered from her height. Isabel had a very fine sneer. ‘But I’m the elder. My hand will be sought in marriage as soon as I am of marriageable age. I can look as high as I please for a husband. Even as high as a Prince of the Blood.’

Which was true enough. She had been listening to our servants gossiping. The phrase had the smack of Margery at her most opinionated.

‘It’s not fair.’ A last resort. I pouted much like the disputed poppet.

‘Of course it is. No one will want you. You are the youngest and will have no inheritance.’

I hit her with the racquet for the shuttlecock. It was an answer to every difficulty between us. She retaliated with a sharp slap to my cheek. Our squawks echoing off the walls of the inner courtyard brought our mother on the scene as well as our governess, Lady Masham, and Bessie. The Countess waved the women aside with a sigh of long-suffering tolerance when she saw the tears and my reddened cheek and swept us away to her parlour. There she pushed us to sit on low stools before her. I remember being suitably subdued.

The Countess knew her daughters well. She preserved a stern face against the humour of our petty wilfulness as she sat in judgement.

‘What is it this time? Isabel? Did you strike your sister? Did you provoke her?’

Isabel looked aside, a sly gesture as I thought. ‘No, madam. I did not.’

I knew it! She thought I would be similarly reticent. We had been lectured often enough on the sin of pride and she would not wish to confess to the Countess the nature of our dispute. But the hurt to my self-esteem was as strong as the physical sting of the flat of Isabel’s hand and so I informed on her smartly enough. ‘She says that she’s more important. That no one will want me for a wife.’ The hot tears that sprang were not of hurt, but of rage.

‘Nor will they!’Isabel hissed like the snake she was. ‘If you can’t keep a still tongue—’

‘Isabel! Enough! It does not become you.’ The Countess’s frown silenced my sister as she leaned forwards to pull me, and the stool, closer. ‘Both of you are important to me.’ She blotted at the tears with the dagged edge of her over-sleeve.

I shook my head. That was not what I wanted to hear. ‘She says that she will get all our father’s land. That I will get nothing.’

‘Isabel is wrong. You are joint heiresses. You will both inherit equally.’

‘Even though I am not a boy?’ I knew enough to understand the pre-eminence of such beings in a household. There were none in ours apart from the young sons of noble families, the henchmen, who came to finish their education with us. And they did not count. My mother had not carried a son, but only two girls.

‘Well…’The Countess looked doubtfully from one to the other, then back to me. ‘Your father’s lands and the title—the Neville inheritance—are entailed in the male line. That means that they will pass on to the son of your Uncle John and his wife Isabella. But the lands I brought to this marriage with your father belonged to my father and my mother, Richard Beauchamp and Isobel Despenser. It is a vast inheritance—land and castles and religious houses the length and breadth of England. And it will be split equally between the two of you.’

‘But she is too young.’ Isabel sprang to her feet so that she could stare down at me with all the hostility of being thwarted. ‘It should all be mine.’

‘You are greedy, Isabel. Sit down.’ Our mother waited until she did with bad grace. ‘Anne will not always be so young. She will grow into a great lady as you will. The land will be split equally. So there—you are both equally important.’

‘But I look like you.’ Isabel smiled winningly.

The Countess laughed, although I did not understand why. ‘So you do. And I think you will be very beautiful, Isabel. But Anne has the look of her father.’ She touched the veil on my braided hair, still neat since it was early in the day. ‘She will become more comely as she grows. Looks mean nothing.’

I expect my answering smile was disgracefully smug. When we were dismissed, Isabel stalked off, chin raised in disdain, but I stayed and leaned close, struck by the appallingly adult consequence of this conversation.

‘Mother—will you have to be dead before we have the land?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I don’t want it.’

She smiled, then hugged me. ‘It is a long way in the future, God willing, for both of us.’

So the course of my life was to be underpinned by the Countess’s inheritance, half of which would pass to me. More importantly, my existence was to be turned on its head by Richard Plantagenet. Richard came into my life when I was eight years old and I was not overly impressed. We were living at Middleham, far in the north of the country at the time, the Earl and Countess’s favourite residence of all our castles. There were always young boys of good birth living in our household, from the most pre-eminent of families since the Earl was the King’s chief counsellor. They came to learn what they would need to know for a life in the highest circles. I had little to do with them, being a girl about her lessons, whilst the arts of warfare exercised most of their time. I was still in the company of Bessie and Lady Masham, an impoverished widow from the Countess’s wide-flung family employed to instruct me in the skills as chatelaine of a great household. The boys with their rough games and combative sports, an endless succession of clouts to the head, scrapes and bruises, did not interest me. Nor did they have any time for me. Except for Francis Lovell, my father’s ward, who was a permanent presence in the household and was not averse to spending time to talk to me although he was more my sister’s age. Francis was kind, above and beyond the demands of chivalry, towards a nuisance of a child such as I was.

Then Richard arrived.

I first noticed him, I think, because he reminded me of myself—we both suffered similar deficiencies. Shorter rather than taller. Slightly built rather than robust. A lot of dark hair as black as the wing of one of the ravens that nested in the crags beyond Middleham, although a lot more untidy than their sleek feathers. With the cruelty of youth I decided that because of his unimpressive stature and build he would make heavy weather of the training. What he would make of me I did not care. He was just another boy come to eat at our table and improve his manners.

My father was away, sent by the King on an embassy to the French Court, so the Countess welcomed the newcomer in the main courtyard when he arrived with his escort, his body servant and train of baggage wagons. An imposing entourage for so young a person.

‘Welcome to Middleham, your Grace,’ the Countess received him.

He bowed with surprising deftness. Even I could see that he had been well taught in the demands of courtly behaviour. Some of the lads almost fell over in the effort, flushing the colour of a beetroot at so gracious a reception by so great lady as my mother, before being taken in hand.

‘My lady.’ His reply was low, but not unconfident. ‘My lady mother the Duchess sends her kind regards and thanks you for your hospitality.’

My mother smiled. ‘You are right welcome. The Master of Henchmen will show you where you will sleep and where to put your belongings. You will answer to him for all your training.’ She indicated Master Ellerby at her side. ‘Then my daughter Isabel will show you to my parlour where I will receive you.’

She pushed Isabel forwards. The unloading began, horses led off to the stabling, the escort to their quarters, our guest’s possessions carried within. It all took time. Isabel had no intention of waiting until it was all complete.

‘I’ll come back for you,’ she informed the boy, shockingly ill mannered, and took herself off about her own concerns. But for once I lingered. Why should I do so? I had no idea but impulse made me stay. The boy did not look particularly pleased to be with us but then the newcomers rarely did. His face was pale and set but composed enough. I studied him as he lifted a bundle containing two swords, a light bow and a dagger from one of the wagons. His lips were thin, with corners tightly tucked in as if he would not say more than he had to. He had a tendency to frown. Perhaps it was his eyes that caught my imagination. They were very dark and cold. No spark of warmth lurked in their depths. Dispassionately, I decided that he looked sad.

So I followed him up the stairs into the living apartments with all the assurance of a daughter of the house. Was I not Lady Anne Neville? I got under everyone’s feet in the doorway until at last Richard Plantagenet’s belongings were stowed away in chests and presses and he sat on the edge of the bed in the room allotted to him for his stay at Middleham.

I took a step into the room. I looked at him. He looked at me.

‘This is a very fine room,’ I informed him, out to impress the newcomer, but also curious. It was one of the circular tower rooms at one of the four corners of the great central keep where we, the family, lived. The stone walls curved in a pleasing fashion whilst the windows, long and narrow in the old style, looked out over the outer courtyard towards the chapel and so allowing more light and air than in many of the rooms. It had its own garderobe in a small turret, a desirable convenience in winter weather when it was necessary for most of the household to brave the chill of the garderobe tower. The Earl’s henchmen were rarely housed so well. Even Francis Lovell, who was almost as important as I and would be a lord, was installed in a bleak little room in the northerly tower that caught a permanent blast of cold air. ‘I think this is one of the best rooms in the castle.’

‘Is it? To my mind it’s cold and draughty.’

I followed his quick survey of the room. Well, it didn’t have the thick tapestries of the room that I shared with Isabel. Nor were the walls plastered and painted with fanciful flowers and birds as in the Countess’s own bedchamber. The floor was of polished oak boards rather than the fashionable painted tiles that had been laid in Warwick Castle. I frowned as I picked up what this boy might think was lacking. But the wooden bedstead was canopied and hung with silk drapes that must surely please, with a matching silk bedcover. The deep green shimmered as a dart of sunshine lanced across it. There was a chest and a press for garments. There was even a whole handful of wax candles in a tall iron candle-stand that could not be sneered at by anyone who wished to read…What more did he want?

‘And where have you come from?’ I hoped my brows rose in a semblance of the Countess at her most superior. How dared he sit in judgement on my home when his own was probably little more than a crude keep and bailey, with no improvements since its construction under William the Norman!

‘Fotheringhay. My father had a new wing built with wall fireplaces and lower ceilings.’ He cast another uncharitable eye around his accommodation.

‘This castle,’ I stated, voice rising, ‘is one of the largest in the country.’

‘That does not make it the most comfortable. Or where I would wish to be.’ He looked at me as if I were an annoying wasp. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

‘I am Lady Anne Neville,’ with all the presumption of indulged youth. ‘Who are you?’

‘Richard Plantagenet.’

‘Oh.’ I was no wiser, although the name Plantagenet was a royal one. ‘My father is the Earl of Warwick.’

‘I know. The Earl is my cousin, so we are cousins once removed, I suppose.’ He did not seem delighted at the prospect.

‘Who is your father?’ I asked.

‘The Duke of York. He is dead.’

I ignored the shortness of the reply, homing in on the information. Now I knew. ‘So your brother is King Edward.’ That put the newcomer into quite a different category in my mind.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’ I continued my nosy catechism. ‘You don’t look old enough to begin your training as a knight. I am more than eight.’

‘I am twelve years old. I am already a Knight of the Garter.’

‘Only because your brother is King!’

He shrugged as he bent to pat a hound that had wandered in, clearly not prepared to offer any more conversation.

‘I too am very important,’ I informed him. I had no dignity.

‘You are a girl. And still a child.’

Which put me entirely in my place. I turned on my heel and stomped from the room, leaving him to make his own way or wait for Isabel’s tender mercies. I think it was Francis Lovell who eventually took pity on him and took him to my mother’s chamber. I was not there. Lady Masham had run me to ground in her fussy manner and scolded me for absenting myself from my lessons.

I was not satisfied with my brief acquaintance.

Richard Plantagenet continued to say little, but took to his studies well enough. He intrigued me. His confidence. His quiet, self-contained competence. I began to haunt the exercise yard and the lists when I could where he practised the knightly drills. And I was right. He suffered. He did not have the stature or strength of muscle to hold his own against Francis, who was often pitted against him. Richard spent a lot of time sprawled in the dust and dirt. But he did not give in. And I had to admire his courage, his determination to scrape himself up from the floor. Quick and alert, he soon learned that he could make up in guile and speed for what he lacked in size and weight. He could ride a horse as if born in the saddle.

But still he was often on the floor with a bloody nose and dust plastered over his face. After a particularly robust session with sword and shield, Master Ellerby sent him to sit on the bench as the side of the exercise yard. Still dazed, Richard Plantagenet rubbed his face and nose on his sleeve. I crept along by the wall and sat on the bench with him. An opportunity too good to miss, to find out more whilst his guard was down. What did I want to know? Anything, really. Anything to explain this solemn youth who sat quietly at meals, who carved the roast beef with stern concentration, who watched and absorbed and said little.

‘Are you content here?’ I asked for want of anything more interesting to say.

He snorted, pushing his hair from his eyes. ‘Better when my head is not ringing from the Master’s gentle blows! I swear Edward did not intend me to be knocked senseless when he sent me here.’

‘You said you did not want to be here.’ The implied criticism of Middleham still rankled. ‘Where would you rather be, that’s better than here?’

‘With my brother. In London. That’s where I shall go when I am finished here.’

‘Do you miss your family?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Not much.’

‘Do you have brothers other than the King? Sisters?’

‘Yes. Ten.’

‘Ten?’ Shock made me turn to face him. ‘I only have Isabel. That’s enough.’

‘But some are dead, and all are older than I. George of Clarence is the one I know best.’

‘You are the Duke of Gloucester.’ I had acquired some knowledge since our exchange of views. ‘Your father was attainted traitor when he fought against the Lancastrian upstart Henry, the last king.’

‘Yes.’ Richard bared his teeth. ‘And he died for it on the battlefield at Wakefield. And my brother Edmund with him. Margaret of Anjou, Queen Margaret, had my father’s head cut from his body and put on a spike above Micklegate Bar in York. A despicable end for a brave man.’

It was the longest speech I had heard him make. He still felt the hurt of it.

‘Did you have to hide?’

‘In a way. We—my brother Clarence and my mother—had to go into exile for our safety. We went to the Netherlands.’ His guard was clearly down, offering so much.

‘Did you like it?’ I could not imagine being forced to leave England in fear of my life, being forced to beg for charity from some foreign family and be unsure that I would ever be able to return. I knew I would have hated it.

‘Well enough.’

Now what? I sought for another topic to lure him into speech. It was difficult. ‘Were you called Richard after your father? I was named Anne for my mother.’

‘No. After your grandfather, Richard Neville, the Earl of Salisbury. He stood as my godfather at my baptism and so I was named Richard.’

‘Oh.’ His connection with my family was getting stronger. His nose still bled and his sleeve was well spotted with blood. I handed him a square of linen. Lady Masham would have approved, I thought.

‘My thanks.’ He inclined his head with a courtly little gesture, then, wincing, applied the linen with careful enthusiasm.

‘Where were you born?’

‘Fotheringhay.’

‘I was born here. I like it here more than any place else.’

‘I like it too,’ he admitted suddenly, an admission that promptly warmed me to him. ‘It reminds me of Ludlow where I spent some months when I was much younger. Before we were driven out by the Lancastrians at the point of a sword.’ There was the bitterness again.

‘Why were you sent here? Why here?’

His angled look was wary as if unsure of the reason for my question. I had no ulterior motive other than basic inquisitiveness.

‘It was the only household of sufficient rank for my education. As King Edward’s brother…’ He seemed unaware that his shoulders had straightened. ‘My brother and your father are very close. The Earl fought for Edward, helped him get the throne. Perhaps without the Earl he never would have done it. So where other should I have been sent but here? My brother the King has paid well for my upkeep. He sent a thousand pounds.’

I nodded as if I understood. It sounded a vast sum. We sat in silence as he tried ineffectually to brush the dirt from the front of his jacket.

‘Will you fight again today?’

‘When I’ve got my breath back. Which I suppose I have since I’ve done nothing but talk to you for the past minutes.’ He stood and flexed his muscles in his back and thighs with a groan.

‘Perhaps you should not?’

‘Do you think I cannot?’ Looking down at where I still sat, a sudden sparkle, a glow of sheer pride, burst in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘I was lucky to survive my childhood, I’m told. It was a surprise to everyone, including my mother the Duchess who got into the habit of assuring everyone in the household every morning that I was still alive.’ He grinned, showing neat even teeth. ‘I survived and I will be a prince without equal. A bout with a blunt sword will not see me off to my grave.’

‘No.’ It made me smile too. I believed him.

As he would have picked up the practice sword from the bench, I found myself stretching out my hand to stop him. His eyes met mine and held, the light still there.

‘I’m glad you survived.’

I was astounded at what I had said, could not understand why I had said it. I leapt to my feet and ran before he could respond, or I was discovered where I should not be.

I think it was in September of that year that I had my first experience of the painful cut and thrust of political manoeuvring. It was when our household moved to York for a week of celebration and festivity.

It began auspiciously enough. The Earl, my father, was particularly good humoured, not a common occurrence in the months after the King’s marriage, which he viewed with tight-lipped displeasure. It seemed to circle round the King’s choice for his new Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. She was a widow from a low-born avaricious family, all of them grasping and greedy for power, and so quite unsuitable. I did not understand why being a widow should make her an unacceptable wife, since her previous husband was conveniently dead. Nor was avaricious quite within my grasp. But so it was. The marriage, I learnt, had been performed in disgraceful secrecy. I wondered why a King should need to do anything in disgraceful secrecy. Could he not simply order affairs to his own liking?

‘That’s exactly what he’s done,’ the Earl snarled over a platter of bread and beef. ‘He’s followed his own desires. And at what cost to this realm? He’s deliberately gone against my advice. I have to suppose I am of no further value to him, now that he has the Woodvilles ready to bow and scrape and obey every order.’ Temper sat on him like a thundercloud.

Thus it was a relief when our visit to York lightened his mood. We were dressed and scrubbed and polished and instructed on our behaviour, to be seemly at all times. I had a new gown because at nine years I was growing fast. We walked the short distance to the great cathedral and took our seats. Important seats in the chancel because, as Isabel whispered to me as the congregation massed behind us, we were the most important family present. The choir sang. The priests processed with candles and silver cross and incense. And there at the centre of it all was Bishop George Neville, my father’s youngest brother, my uncle, splendid in the rich cope and gilded mitre of his office. Now to be enthroned as Archbishop of York. It was a magnificent honour for our family.

Except that a heavy frown pulled the Earl’s brows into a black bar. He was not pleased. Nor his other brother, my uncle Lord John, the Earl of Northumberland. I could just see them seated together if I leaned forwards, impressive in satin and fur, in an angry, whispered conversation with each other. Their words held a sharp bite, but I was not close enough to make them out.

‘What is it?’ I whispered to Francis Lovell on my left side. ‘What’s wrong?’

He nodded over to our left. ‘Empty!’ he mouthed the word silently.

I leaned forwards to see. At the side of the chancel in pride of place were two magnificent thrones of carved and gilded wood, obviously placed there for some important personages. The only seats in the cathedral not occupied.

‘Who?’

It was Richard, seated neat and resplendent in dark velvet on my other side who answered with the croak of adolescent youth, ‘My brother the King and his wife, Elizabeth Woodville. They have not come. They were expected.’

‘Oh!’ I saw that there was a frown on his face almost to equal my father’s. ‘Does it matter?’ I hissed sotto voce.

Richard frowned harder. ‘Yes. I think it does.’

We were hushed with a sharp glance from the Countess as the new Archbishop took his episcopal throne. The ceremony drew to a close and the treble voices of the choir lifted in jubilation at George Neville’s investiture. Perhaps the pride on his features too was muted as he saw the proof of absent guests. His smile gained a sour edge.

Afterwards we gathered on the forecourt before the west door, collecting the household together before returning to our lodging.

‘We should have expected it, should we not!’The Earl made no attempt to lower his voice.

My mother place a placatory hand on his arm. ‘The King himself suggested the promotion for your brother. He chose George personally and it is a great honour.’

‘But not to be present at his enthronement? God’s Blood! It’s a deliberate provocation. An insult to our name and my position.’

‘There may be a reason—’

‘The only reason I can think of is a personal slight against me and mine. He should have been here. You can’t persuade me that the King was not aware of how his absence would be read by those who wish us ill.’

But who would wish us ill? I had known nothing but love and care in my nine years. The Lancastrians, of course, would have no affection for the Earl of Warwick, but they were defeated, old King Henry touched in his mind and kept fast in the Tower, his queen and son in exile, whilst King Edward held my father in high regard. So who would wish to cause us harm?

‘There may be other demands on his time…’ the Countess persisted.

‘Woodville demands. It’s that woman’s doing. She has the King wound round her manipulating fingers, as tight as any bowstring. I wager she kept him from York. Has the King no sense…?’

‘Hush! You’ll be overheard.’

‘I care not.’

I was increasingly aware of Richard’s taut figure beside me. When I edged close, took hold of his sleeve and pulled to attract his attention, to try to discover the reason for his stark pallor, the stormy glitter of his eyes, he snatched his arm away, which movement caught the Earl’s eye; as he glowered in Richard’s direction, I thought for the briefest of moments that he would turn his anger on this youngest brother of the King. He frowned at the pair of us as if we had been discovered in some mischief, sharp words rising to his lips.

But the Earl’s face softened as he moved towards us.

‘Anne.’ He touched my shoulder, a gentle clasp. Smiled at Richard, and there was no hostility there. ‘Don’t be concerned, boy. Whatever is between your brother and myself does not rest on your back. You need broader shoulders than yours yet to take on your brother’s misdemeanours. It’s not for you to worry about.’

‘No, sir.’ Richard dropped his eyes.

‘Is my uncle George still Archbishop, even though the King did not come?’ I asked.

‘He is.’ My childish query made my father laugh. ‘We’ll forget Edward and celebrate with your uncle, for his and our own promotion. It’s a proud day, after all.’

Yet the incident of the empty thrones had cast a cloud over the whole ceremony and again over the sumptuous feast where we continued to celebrate, when it was necessary for the chairs set for the King and Queen to be shuffled quickly away and the seating rearranged. The music and singing, the magnificent banquet, the noisy conversations of the Nevilles and their dependents neatly covered over any lack in the occasion, but it remained there, an unease, as unpleasant as a grub in the heart of an apricot. I did not understand, but I remembered the harsh reaction to the name of Woodville.

I cornered Richard before he could make his escape that night. He still had a bleak expression, but that had never stopped me. ‘Why was my father so angry?’

‘You must ask him.’

‘You think the Earl would tell me?’ I was of an age to resent being kept in the dark. ‘I’m asking you.’ Sympathy at the dark emotion in his eyes moved my inquisitive heart. ‘Tell me about Elizabeth Woodville.’

It was as if I had touched a nerve and his reply was without control. ‘My brother should never have married her. My mother hates her. I hate her too.’

Without further words or any courtesy he turned his back and leapt up the stairs two at a time. He kept his distance and his silence on the matter for the rest of the visit, whilst I was left to consider the strains that could tear a family apart so, where ambition and personal hatreds could replace compassion and affection that were at the heart of my own experience. I would hate it too if my family was as wrenched apart as Richard’s.

My childhood passed in an even seam with Richard a constant. Our paths crossed as those in an extended family must. At prayers in our chapel. At dinner in the Great Hall and the supper at the end of the day. Through the rains and snows of winter, the days that beckoned us outside in summer. But nothing of note happened between us. His time was demanded by the Master of Henchmen, mine by Lady Masham and the Countess.

As I grew I spied on Richard less often. Perhaps I was more self-conscious of my status in the household. Neville heiresses did not skulk and spy as a child might. But I knew that he learned to wield a sword with skill, that his talent with a light bow was praiseworthy, that he could couch a lance in the tilting yard to hit the quintain foursquare and ride to safety and not be thwacked for carelessness between the shoulder blades or on the side of the head by the revolving bag of sand. He was spread-eagled in the dirt less often.

I applied myself to my lessons. It was the Countess’s wish that her daughters learn to read and write as any cultured family would, and so we did. Mastering the skill, I read the tales of King Arthur and his knights with sighing pleasure. I wept over the doomed lovers Tristram and Isolde. Sir Lancelot of the Lake and his forbidden love for Guinevere warmed my romantic heart. The painted illustration in the precious book showed Guinevere to have long golden hair, too much like Isabel for my taste. And Lancelot was tall and broad with golden hair to his shoulders as he stood in heroic pose with sword in hand and a smile for his lady. Nothing like Richard, who would never be fair and broad and scowled more often than he smiled. But I could dream and I did.

I recall little in detail of all those days, until the momentous day of the marriage proposal, except for the Twelfth Night celebrations. After the processions, the festive feast with the boar’s head and the outrageous pranks of the Lord of Misrule, we exchanged gifts. I still have the one that Richard gave me. It has travelled with me into exile, into un-numbered dangers from imminent battle, and finally into captivity. I have never seen its like and would be dismayed if it were ever lost to me. Richard must have bought it from a travelling peddler when he had visited York. On its presentation I tore impatiently at the leather wrapping.

‘Oh! Oh, Richard!’

I laughed at the childish whimsy of it. Not of any intrinsic value, yet it was cunningly contrived of metal, a little hollow bird that would sit in the palm of my hand, plump and charming, its beak agape like a fledgling, its feathers well marked on the tiny wings that were arched on its back. When I moved the little lever on the side, the bird’s tongue waggled back and forth. When I blew across the hollow tail, it emitted a warbling whistle. I practised to everyone’s amusement.

‘Richard. Thank you.’ I was lost for words, but I made the appropriate curtsy, lifting my new damask skirts and much prized silken underskirt with some semblance of elegance.

He flushed. Bowed in reply with more flamboyance than I had previously seen. Kissed my fingers as if I were a great lady. His lessons in chivalry had gone on apace.

‘It is my pleasure. The little bird is charming, as are you, Cousin Anne.’

When he drew me to my full height and kissed my cheeks, one and then the other, and then my lips in cousinly greeting, I felt hot and cold at the same time, my face flushed with bright colour. Francis Lovell’s friendly salutes never had that effect on me.

I think it was then, with the imprint of Richard’s kiss on my astonished lips, that I determined, with true Neville arrogance, that I would have him as my own. No other girl would have him, I swore silently with one of the Earl’s more colourful oaths. Richard, I wager, felt no such significance in his gift from me. He was more taken up with the horse-harness the Earl had given him, an outrageously flamboyant affair, all polished leather with enamel and gilded fittings.

And what did I give to Richard Plantagenet? What would I, a ten-year-old girl, give to a prince who had everything, whose brother was King of England? With many doubts and some maternal advice I plied a needle. My mother said it would be good practice and Richard would be too kind to refuse my offering, however it turned out. I scowled at the implication, but stitched industriously. I stitched through the autumn months when the days grew short and I had to squint in candlelight to make for him an undershirt in fine linen, to fit under a light metal-and-velvet brigandine that was a present from his brother and his favourite garment. A mundane choice of gift from me, but I turned it into an object of fantasy by embroidering Richard’s heraldic motifs on the breast in silk thread and a few leftover strands of gold. A white rose for the house of York. The Sun in Splendour that his brother had adopted for the Yorkist emblem after the battle of Mortimer’s Cross when the miracle of the three suns appeared together in the heavens. And for Richard himself, his own device of a white boar. I was not displeased with the result. The rays of the sun were haphazard. Isabel scoffed that the boar had more of a resemblance to the sheep on the hills beyond Middleham. But my mother declared it more than passable and I presented it with all the pride of my hard labours.

Richard accepted it as if it were the most costly garment from the fashion-conscious Court of Burgundy. He did not remark on the less-than-even stitches as Isabel had. Nor did he laugh at my woeful depiction of the boar.

‘It is exactly what I could wish for.’

I blushed with pride. I know he wore it, even when much washed and frayed at cuff and neck and most of the embroidery long gone.

I might have decided that I wanted Richard Plantagenet, but I did not love him. Sometimes I hated him, and he me with equal virulence, although much of the tension between us was of my own making. As I grew I struggled with conflicting emotions that drove me to be capricious with him.

Richard and his horse had fallen heavily in a bout in the tilt yard and, mount limping, he had been dispatched to the stables. I had been looking for someone to annoy and here, on that particular morning, was the perfect target. I had no pity. He was dishevelled and sweaty, one sleeve of his leather jacket ripped almost away at the shoulder seam. Favouring one shoulder with a heavy wince of pain, he hissed between his teeth as he moved and stretched about his task. There was a raw graze along one cheekbone; his hair looked as if it had not seen a comb for days. In the dusty gloom of the stall he spoke with soft words to the restive horse, running his hand down a foreleg. Beside him on a bench was the makings of a hot poultice, steaming and aromatic, and a roll of stalwart bandaging. The horse shifted uneasily. I could see the white of its eye as it whickered and jibbed when Richard touched a sore spot. With long strokes, completely absorbed in his task so that he was unaware of my presence, he began to apply the hot mess, the remedy for all equine ills according to Master Sutton, the Earl’s head groom. He worked smoothly, gently, despite his own discomfort. I saw that his horse’s well-being came before his own ills, but I was not in the mood to admit to being impressed. I came to stand behind him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘As you see.’

He did not turn his head, or register my presence in any other way, and the answer did not please me. It had been a bad morning and I was in disgrace. Out of sorts since the moment I was roused from my bed, I was sullen and dull at my lessons. So I had to repeat them, but was even more uncooperative when Isabel had been released to freedom. Since Lady Masham had obviously prattled to my mother about my sins, the Countess sent me to the kitchens as punishment, to help in the making of candles for the household use. It was a fit task for a child who would not mind her lessons and was rude to her governess. Some practical work would soon set me to rights.

Isabel smirked. Francis Lovell laughed and refused to commiserate so, fingers burnt from hot tallow and a further sharp reprimand from the cook for my careless dipping of the long candles, I suppose I was out for blood at the short reply from Richard Plantagenet. I did not like to be ignored. I needed to wound and hurt.

‘Did you fall?’

‘Go away.’

I was not used to being spoken to like this, particularly not by a henchman, Duke of Gloucester, royal prince or not. ‘I will not. These are more my stables than yours! I suppose you were clumsy and caused the horse to fall.’

He looked up over his shoulder at me. Squinted at me as I stood outlined by light in the doorway. Then back to the task in hand. ‘I suppose I was.’

I had seen the pain and anxiety in his face, but I was not moved to show compassion. Why should I be the only occupant of the castle to suffer? ‘It will probably be crippled, poor thing. Not worth the keeping.’

‘It’s only a bad sprain. It will heal.’

‘It could be broken. See how the animal does not wish to put its foot down. My father has had horses destroyed for less.’

‘What do you know? Go away. You’re nothing but a nuisance.’

‘And you are changeling!’ Isabel was not the only one to listen to servants’ gossip. I had a ready store of disreputable information and, to my later shame, chose this moment to display it.

For a little time, to my disappointment, Richard did not react. He finished strapping the leg, tucked in the ends neatly, before straightening whilst I waited in the taut silence. As he drew himself to his full height I had to look up. I had not realised how tall he had grown over the weeks since his fourteenth birthday. His expression was not pleasant, his cheekbones stark beneath tight skin, and his dark eyes held mine as fierce as the talons of a hawk would hold down a rabbit before ripping it apart.

‘What did you say?’

I swallowed, but would not retreat even though common sense warned me that I should. Now I had all his attention, for good or ill. I stared back.

‘They say that you’re a changeling. That yours was an unnatural birth. That you came into this world with black hair to your shoulders, like an animal, and all your teeth already formed.’

‘Is that all?’ Undoubtedly a sneer. ‘What else do they say?’

I swallowed. Well, I would say it. ‘That you’re not well formed as a man should be. That you’ll never take to the field as a good soldier.’

‘And am I? You tell me what gossip says. What do you say?’

At the stern demand for truth rather than conjecture, I could not answer.

‘Why do you not answer? What do you see, Lady Anne Neville, from your self-righteous and selfappointed position of spreader of poisonous gossip? Am I such a monstrosity?’

I kept my chin high. ‘No.’

‘Why should I be a changeling?’ he demanded as if he had not heard my denial. ‘Because I do not bear the same physical appearance as my brother the King? The long bones and fair hair, like my brother Clarence or my sister the Lady Margaret? My dark hair is from the Neville breeding of my mother, Duchess Cecily. As for teeth I do not know, but I’m neither misbegotten nor a changeling.’

So he had heard the gossip too. Of course he would. And my repeating of it as an accusation had hurt him when his emotions were most compromised by his horse’s injury. I was undoubtedly in the wrong. The guilt smote heavily against my insensitive heart, a hammer blow to an anvil.

‘I did not think—’

‘No, you did not.’ There was no softening, and it struck me that he would be a dangerous enemy to have against you. Usually polite beyond measure, now he did not guard his words. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself to so slander a guest in your household. I think your mother the Countess would beat you if she knew.’

So did I.

‘I did not mean—’

‘Yes, you did. You would repeat what you heard, common tattle without foundation, as any kitchen wench might after a cup of ale. You’re no better than any one of our Lancastrian enemies who would use whatever means to blacken our name.’

He was wrong. I was not so deliberately vindictive, intent on destruction. Nor was I his enemy. Only childishly cruel with my words, demanding attention. Although perhaps there was little difference in the outcome. My attempt at silent self-justification did not make me feel any better.

‘I am sorry.’

‘So you should be.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Of course.’ Now he withdrew into himself, face impassive, eyes flat. ‘As I must forgive a child who does not consider the repercussions of her taunts.’ He turned from me, brushing me off. But I could see his tense shoulders as he began once more to stroke the horse. Gentle hands for his injured animal even when furious with me. I would have given anything to take back those words. Perhaps I had lost his friendship for ever over a moment’s stupidity. I did not know what to do, but I could not leave it like this. Carefully I walked to his side and reached up to caress the animal’s neck.

‘He will be well,’ I assured in a small voice. I tried hard to prevent it from catching. ‘I only said it to hurt you. Master Sutton’s remedy is very good. My father says there’s none better.’ I stared at his unresponsive shoulders, willing him to turn and make it easy for me, but he didn’t. I took a breath. ‘I too had dark hair when I was born, and a lot of it.’

Richard did not reply, but ran his fingers through the animal’s tangled mane, teasing out the knots.

‘I don’t think I had my teeth. My nurse says I cried and fretted when my gums were sore.’

Nothing! He did not even bother to tell me to go away. Well, I would show him.

I lifted the embroidered fillet from my head and pulled off the linen veil, dropping them both carelessly on the straw. Then unpinned my bound and braided hair without compunction, a lengthy business undertaken every morning by Bessie. Shook it out so that it lay limply against my cheeks.

‘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.