Authors: Sandra Worth
To this.
She became aware that Elizabeth was watching her, and with an expression that spoke far more than words.
The child has a good heart
, she thought. Raising a hand, she touched the girl’s soft fair hair. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun. For a long while she sat, quietly drinking in its drowsy warmth until, at length, men’s voices and the trample of horses’ feet shattered her peace. Opening her eyes, she squinted into the sun, in the direction of the noise.
From where she sat with Elizabeth, high in the pleasure garden near the Round Tower, she had an excellent view of the main entrance. A small troop of men-at-arms had appeared through a distant archway in the castle wall and begun a descent to the Norman Gate. In their midst a lone woman rode pillion. Thin, rigidly erect, wearing a wimple and dressed in black, there was no mistaking Margaret Beaufort. As if sensing Anne’s attention, Stanley’s wife turned her head and stared directly at her.
Anne shivered.
Elizabeth also watched uneasily as Margaret Beaufort and her escorts descended to the main gate.
“You don’t like her, do you?” said Anne, reading her expression.
Elizabeth averted her eyes hastily. “N-No, my lady, ’tis not so—”
Anne studied Elizabeth’s sweet face. Though she was a Woodville, there was nothing Woodville about her. From the beginning, Anne had sensed a rare integrity in the girl. “You needn’t pretend with me, Elizabeth. We are friends.” She patted her hand. “The reason I ask is because she troubles me also.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open with surprise. “Your Grace—” said Elizabeth.
“
Anne
. Call me Anne.”
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, “’Tis presumptuous of me to judge others—my lady—
Anne
—” her gaze returned to the Norman Gate and the joy vanished from her face, “but Lady Margaret has always seemed cold to me and—and—”
“Aye?” Anne prompted.
“And—” Elizabeth searched for the right word— “dangerous.”
Anne’s eyes widened. The same thought had come to her on her coronation day. “Lady Stanley had the honour of carrying my train at my coronation, yet she’s been at the centre of two treasonous plots against my lord, the King, for which he has forgiven her both times.” Elizabeth coloured fiercely and Anne remembered that Elizabeth’s own mother had been at the centre of those plots alongside Margaret Beaufort. She reached out, took the girl’s hand into her own. “Child, it was not your fault; you were not involved. One thing I’ve learned in life is that we can only be responsible for ourselves.”
A grateful smile lifted the corners of Elizabeth’s lips. “On my part, I’ve learned that, for all his sternness, the King is in truth a gentle and forgiving man.”
“Too forgiving, and too gentle, and too easily fooled by showy piety.” Anne tensed again. She returned her gaze to the gate. Though Margaret Beaufort was gone from sight, the chill she had felt when the woman had looked at her still lingered.
Elizabeth followed the direction of Anne’s gaze. “Something about her troubles me… Could Lady Stanley be false of heart and using her devotion as a ploy to get her way with others?”
What wisdom the child has!
Anne thought. “Aye, dear Elizabeth, her actions speak of her falseness. I know it goes contrary to what we are told, but I have long believed it is by our deeds, not only our words, that we will be judged.”
“I don’t even trust that she had a—” Elizabeth blushed a furious red and looked down at her hands in confusion. “Nay, I speak foolishly.”
“I, too, have doubted that Margaret Beaufort had a vision.”
The heavy lashes that shadowed the girl’s cheeks flew up.
“It merely seemed… too convenient,” Anne replied in response to Elizabeth’s questioning gaze. “She had to choose whether to marry dull Suffolk or dashing Edmund Tudor. What better way to get her wish than to claim St. Nicholas appeared to her in a vision to demand it be Tudor? She’s clever enough to concoct the story.”
“I believe those who have truly been vouchsafed a vision would keep it close to their hearts, like a cherished treasure. Not boast openly of it to gain the praise of others.”
“Yet I yearn to be wrong,” Anne sighed. “It would be better for my lord husband if I were. If she does not deceive us, she must be without sin. Otherwise, God would not have chosen her for such honour.”
“Nay, my lady, that need not be! God grants visions even to sinners, for St. Paul had his while persecuting Christians.” She hesitated. “And I’ve had one.”
Anne held her breath as she waited, but Elizabeth said no more. “Blessed Mary,” Anne prompted with a small smile. “Must I always pry the words out of you, Elizabeth?” There was something endearing about the girl’s shyness, and again Anne found herself wondering how the daughter could be so different from the mother.
“It was at Westminster, soon after my sister Mary died,” Elizabeth began softly. “We were very close, Mary and I… One night I couldn’t sleep, so I slipped out. It had rained heavily and it was dark, almost black, no moon at all, no light, not even any torches. I was sitting by the river, weeping, and suddenly there was a flash of blue light and I heard her voice call ‘
Elizabeth!
’ She said my name only once, yet I knew it was Mary. I’d know her voice anywhere. And that flash of light, I didn’t imagine it—” She dropped her gaze, her cheeks crimson. “I’ve never spoken of it before.”
Anne looked up at the sky. If only she could hear Ned’s voice again—one single word, that would be enough! Only half aware that she spoke aloud, she said, “Sometimes, late at night, when I pray, the candles flutter and I think I see out of the corner of my eye…”
Ned?
Her voice broke slightly, “I don’t know what I see. When I look, it’s gone.” She closed her eyes against the anguish that seared her heart.
Anne felt Elizabeth’s gentle touch on her sleeve and lifted her gaze to the girl’s sweet face. There was a depth of compassion in her eyes. “In no other way has God shown me special favour,” Elizabeth said. “I’m certain there are many whom He loves better, who have never been granted such comfort.”
Anne had the vague sensation that she was looking at herself, for again came that resemblance she had first caught at Westminster. Without forming a prayer or importuning the Blessed Virgin, in some far corner of her mind, a new knowledge took form, casting light into the shadows, filling her with hope and a calm strength.
In front of me all along lay the answer to my prayers, and I, poor blind sinner, have not seen!
Anne took the girl’s hand into her own. “‘Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” She closed her eyes, rested her head against the back of the chair, and let a smile curve her lips.
~ * ~
Chapter 15
“The good Queen… saddening in her childless castle.”
At Nottingham Castle, Richard descended the outer staircase from the great hall and crossed the inner court to the royal tower and his private apartments. The night was cool for mid-September, and few stars were visible in the cloudy sky. Torches flamed on the walls and guards walked the battlements, their footsteps resounding in the silence. He had rebuilt much of Nottingham in these months, yet in spite of the new tower’s grace of proportion, the airiness of the coloured windows in the great hall, and the elegance of the stone corbels around the windows, it remained a gloomy place. As usual Anne was right: it had an air.
He trudged wearily up the stone steps to his bedchamber. It was late, and he had concluded much business that day. The Scottish envoys had arrived to sue for peace, and it was an impressive embassy that James III had sent. This time they would reach an agreement, maybe even seal the treaty with a marriage. He would offer King James’ son and heir the hand of his niece, Anne de la Pole, Jack’s sister. Richard faltered on the darkened stairway. A month ago, he had finally declared Jack his heir to the throne. He’d wanted George’s son, who was both Plantagenet and Neville.
Like Ned.
He leaned a hand against the stone wall, shutting his eyes against the onslaught of pain. But Edward was a minor, and the realm needed a man. Besides, as his councillors had pointed out, Edward was simple-minded, as poor Henry had been. And so he had made the only choice he could. His twenty-four-year-old nephew, John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln, whom he fondly called “Jack.” A fine young man, Jack. Pious. A good soldier. He held great promise. And he had youth and energy with which to tackle the demanding affairs of the realm.
He would need that.
He resumed his steps up the staircase, taking care to tread lightly. He didn’t wish to disturb Anne, if she slept. God be thanked, she did seem better. She was still too thin, too pale, too frail, but her spirits had mended somewhat. That was much to be grateful for. He reached the landing, surprised to find light flowing under the threshold. Anne was still up! He quickened his steps, pushed the door open, and stepped into the opulent solar, hung with bright coloured tapestries and furnished with carved chairs and tables covered in damask cloth.
Anne was sitting on a pile of red and purple silk cushions by the hearth where a warm fire crackled while their hound Roland slept nearby.
Like old times
, he thought with both joy and an ache. Her eyes loomed too large in her drawn face and she was so thin that she seemed overwhelmed by the topaz chamber robe that only last year had fit her well enough. He took a seat beside her on the pillows. “You should be asleep, my love. Are you not tired?”
Anne was exhausted from the strain of entertaining the Scottish ambassadors and Richard’s great retinue that included the peers of the realm, Howard, Percy, Stanley, Chancellor Russell, many bishops, and all the knights and esquires of the body. But she had a pressing matter on her mind and time was passing; she couldn’t afford to wait. She feigned a light heart as she offered him a goblet of wine.
“I haven’t seen you in days—not
really
seen you—and I wished us to spend a little time together.”
He eyed her suspiciously. Beneath the gaiety, strain was evident. “Anne, if there’s something you want, you’ve no need to soften me up first. ’Tis yours, whatever it is.”
“No, my lord,” Anne lied, blushing and dropping her gaze. She had forgotten how he could read her. “I merely wish to talk… Is it so strange for a wife to expect a little of her husband’s attention?”
Richard wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t worth an argument. He stretched out and laid his head in her lap. He almost winced. It felt light as goose down. “You managed very well today at the banquet, my little bird,” he said as brightly as he could. “All went very well indeed. Everyone seemed to have a splendid time.”
“I thought so, too, Richard. The minstrels were especially fine, and I enjoyed watching everyone dance.”
A silence fell. Richard turned his head away towards the fire. The last time they had danced together had been here, at Nottingham, on the Feast of St. George.
Anne saw Richard’s mouth pull down with pain. Summoning the force of her will, she suppressed her own anguish and said gaily, “I thought the ladies had gone to much trouble to dress for the banquet. They all looked particularly lovely tonight.”
Richard propped himself up on an elbow and sipped his wine. “I didn’t notice.”
Anne stroked his dark hair. “Surely, you must have noticed someone?”
“Like whom?”
“How about Ratcliffe’s lady—she was all in gold to match her hair.”
Richard shook his head.
“I do so enjoy watching those two. They’re so in love—” She caught the wistfulness in her voice and immediately changed her tone. “Welladay, you must have noticed my Uncle John’s daughter, Elizabeth—she was in violet, and I thought that was very becoming with her chestnut curls—” Elizabeth took after her mother and an image of sweet dead Isobel flashed into Anne’s mind. She bit her lip, rushed on. “But of all my uncle’s five daughters, Meggie is quite the most beautiful. You surely noticed her?”
“The one in royal blue?”
Anne made a show of clapping her hands. “Aye, to match her eyes! So you’re not dead to our womanly charms? I do believe, Richard, that with her great beauty, she can hope for a splendid marriage.” Meggie had inherited her father’s deep blue eyes and dimples, and her mother’s chestnut hair and milk-and-roses complexion. Before Anne could stop herself, she added, “She’s much like them both, don’t you think?”
Richard’s eyes clouded. She had ruptured the mood once again. She blurted out, “I believe Joan Scrope is in love with Jack.”
“If she is, ’tis too bad for her. As my heir, Jack must marry for dynastic reasons, not for love,” he said tersely.
“’Tis sad that a king can’t marry for love, Richard.”
“Edward did, and his queen made England bleed.”
“England bled not because he married for love,” Anne replied gently, “but because he married the wrong woman.”
“A Woodville.”
“No, Richard. Not all Woodvilles are alike. Bess was simply unworthy.” She stole a sidelong glance at him. “Take her daughter, Elizabeth, for example. She’s nothing like her mother.”
“Perhaps,” Richard said curtly. “But she doesn’t have to worry about being queen. She’s a bastard.”
“She’s your niece.”
“’Tis the only reason I tolerate her.”
Anne assumed a smiling, musing manner, “Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“I’ve never given it thought.”
“Finding a woman attractive is not something to which a man gives thought.” Anne wasn’t about to give up, not now that she’d broached the subject close to her heart. “Either he does, or he doesn’t.”
He sat up abruptly. “Anne, what’s this about? Why these foolish questions about that girl?”
“I just want to know, is all. Can’t you humour me, Richard?”
“Very well then. She has fair hair like her mother.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means she’s a Woodville.”
“Is that all you see when you look at her—a Woodville?”
“Aye. What else is there?” He picked up his goblet and downed a gulp.
“A truer beauty even than that of the face. Goodness of the heart… And she is of robust health. She’ll bear her husband many fine sons—”