By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
CLAYMORE PRESS
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
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Copyright © Elizabeth Ashworth, 2013

9781783469277

9781781593707

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I would like to thank the members of the history board at C19 for all the knowledge they shared with me during my research for this novel. I also want to thank Damaris who suggested the book’s title. It was inspired and very appropriate.

Anne Harrington paused, mid-stitch, at the sound of hooves on the stone bridge that crossed the river. Laying her work aside she hurried to the narrow window that overlooked the approach to Hornby Castle. She shielded her eyes against the March sun, which hung low in the sky, and watched as the group of horsemen came nearer.

“Who is it?” asked her sister, Izzie, coming to stand beside her, her breath unsteady against Anne’s cheek.

“I can’t see. Surely Uncle James would have told us if someone was expected?”

No one came to Hornby uninvited, except the Stanleys, and Anne and her sister lived in constant fear of the abduction and forced marriage that would follow any breach of the fortifications. Their uncle had kept them safe so far, but Anne feared that it was only a matter of time before Lord Stanley forced them to go with him.

She felt her heartbeat quicken as she watched. The men and horses were clearer now, yet the emblem on the unfurled banner that was snapping in the sharp wind was still indistinguishable to her.

“Who has the badge of a white boar?” asked Izzie.

“A white boar? I don’t know. But at least it isn’t the eagle’s claw that you see,” said Anne, though she didn’t find much reassurance in her own words. Any stranger was a potential enemy in this remote northern stronghold. She watched as the riders reached the gatehouse and guards stepped forward, sun reflecting off drawn swords and polished armour. Then a figure ran up the slope towards the gate of the inner bailey and disappeared from view. Moments later there was a shout of consent.

“They’re raising the portcullis!” said Anne as the creaking and groaning of the mechanism drifted upwards and a flock of rooks flew up in alarm from the woodland. “Uncle James must know who it is. Do you think we should go down?”

“Of course,” said Izzie. “How else will we discover who has come?”

“They must be Yorkists,” said Anne as she followed her sister down the dark winding stairs. Then she hesitated as they reached the floor below. “Wait!” she called. She grabbed at the trailing sleeve of her sister’s gown as Izzie lifted the latch on the heavy door that opened onto the steps down to the bailey.

“Let’s watch from here – until we are sure it’s safe,” she said, pulling her sister to where they could peep down through a slit in the castle wall, through a gap designed for firing arrows but which equally fitted the purpose of observing people below.

As they peered down, pushing against each other to try to get a better view, Anne saw guards pull back the huge beam of wood that held the doors closed and, as they swung open, she saw Uncle James hurry down the wooden steps from the hall, pulling his best fur lined coat straight as he greeted the visitors.

“Welcome to Hornby, Your Grace!” he said, his voice carrying as it echoed off the surrounding walls.

“Who is it?” asked Izzie again.

“Shush!” scolded Anne. “I’m trying to hear, and to see if you’d move out of the way!”

She elbowed her sister again to watch the man her uncle was greeting. He dismounted agilely from his huge grey stallion and patted its steaming, muscular neck. He was dark haired and looked young, not much older than herself she thought, and not particularly tall, though his shoulders looked broad enough underneath his armour. And as she studied him he glanced up in her direction, as if he was aware of being watched, and she drew back with a sharp intake of breath.

Her movement allowed Izzie to take her place and Anne’s view was blocked by her sister’s head, Izzie’s thick brown braids bouncing against her shoulders in excitement.

“I don’t recognise him,” she said.

“Come away,” said Anne, pulling at her sister’s arm again, embarrassed that they had been caught spying. “We will soon discover who he is.”

“Well Uncle James is treating him with too much respect for him to be a Stanley. Do you think he has come from the king?”

“Perhaps,” said Anne. The voices faded to a murmur as the men went inside, leaving only the gentle clip-clop of the horses being led away to the stables. “Now that the rebellion has been put down and Warwick revealed as a traitor the king may have changed his mind about our inheritance.”

“You sound as if you would be pleased if we were robbed of what is rightfully ours!” replied Izzie and Anne saw the blaze of defiance in her eyes. She knew that her younger sister was finding it hard to accept what was virtually imprisonment by their uncle and that at thirteen years old she was on the brink of both womanhood and a rebellion of her own. “This castle and its estates are rightly ours,” she said, waving an arm around to indicate the nearby villages of Hornby and Melling. “Why should we be forced to give them up?”

Anne sighed. “You know well enough that the control of our wealth and even of ourselves belongs not to us but to our guardian. If we no longer owned these lands then Lord Stanley would have no interest in us and would leave us in peace.”

“Stanley,” spat Izzie as if the name was a sour plum. “He can’t force us to marry. A woman cannot be married without giving her consent.”

“I doubt we would have that choice if he ever broke through these walls,” said Anne, running her slender fingers over the dark stone that was all that protected them from being carried from their home. “If the king changes his mind and gives the castle to Uncle James at least it will remain in the family. Stanley wouldn’t want our guardianship if he had nothing to gain from it, and then we would be free to accept a husband of our uncle’s choosing. Our ownership of Hornby brings us nothing but trouble and grief.”

“But it is rightfully ours!”

“You are so naive!” burst out Anne, tired of the way in which this argument always led them in circles. She often thought that Izzie would never grow up and see the truth – that women were always at the mercy of greedy men and that wealthy women were the most attractive.

“And you’re so feeble!” answered Izzie as she pulled open the door that led down to the bailey.

“Where are you going?” asked Anne as her sister lifted her skirts.

“To find out who our visitor is. Coming?”

“No,” said Anne, although immediately she’d refused she regretted it. She was eager to know who the dark haired man was and it was only her squabble with her sister that meant she would now have to wait until suppertime to find out.

She climbed back to the chamber in the octagonal tower where she and Izzie spent much of their time and the castle settled back into its brooding defiance, locked down and barricaded against all comers. It was what she had become used to. She had no reliable memories of the time before the deaths of her father and grandfather, just half-remembered glimpses of days of laughter and sunshine and happiness when she had felt safe. She had only been five years old when her life had changed irrevocably and for the last ten years had lived here under the care of her uncle as the arguments raged around her about the Harrington inheritance.

She watched the cold east wind toss the branches of the trees that would soon be bursting into leaf. She would be fifteen soon and lately she had found herself thinking more and more about what her future held. Although Lord Stanley had already tried and failed to take possession of the castle, she knew that he would not give up. She would either be forced into a marriage she did not desire or she would remain locked in this tower for the rest of her life. Neither was a prospect she relished. She listened to the rooks quarrelling over their nest sites and she felt a gnawing desire to know what it would be like to be married to a man. And as she considered it she found herself thinking about their visitor. She remembered the way he had glanced up at her. There had been something about his face that made her stomach flutter as it sometimes did when she heard the guards running up the stone steps to the battlements in response to the alarm call. Yet this was a different kind of fear – a fear that was not entirely unpleasant.

As the bell in the chapel chimed the hour Anne walked down to supper. She could hear a buzz of excited conversation coming from the hall and when she went in she saw that careful preparations had been made. Extra braziers were well alight and the room was uncharacteristically warm, if a little smoky. The best table linen and cups had been laid out with precision and there were delicious aromas rising from the kitchen. Uncle James had plundered the stores for the best of what Hornby had to offer and Anne was curious to know who it was that deserved such a lavish welcome.

Their guest was in conversation with her uncle and, as she approached them, both men stopped speaking and looked at her.

“Your Grace,” said her uncle, “this is my niece, the lady Anne.”

Anne made a slight reverence, finding it difficult to wrench her gaze away from the blue eyes that openly assessed her. “Anne, this is Richard, Duke of Gloucester.”

“Lady Anne,” he said in a voice that was deeper than she expected. He gave a formal bow though his eyes held hers and didn’t falter until she looked away - a blush burning her face. When she glanced back his expression was a mixture of amusement and something else that she couldn’t quite define. There was an aura about him that was almost tangible.

“Shall we eat?” asked Uncle James, indicating that his guest should precede him to the top table and that Anne should sit beside him. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in prayer as the grace was said and then, as the musicians began to play, the servants brought myriad dishes to the table – salted mutton and venison pasties, tarts filled with dried fruit and nuts. The supply of food and drink seemed endless and Anne wondered how her uncle had managed it.

After ensuring that her trencher was filled from the dishes of her choice, the duke turned his attention to his own food. He sliced his meat with a sharp, jewelled knife drawn from the sheath on his belt and ate eagerly.

“Forgive my lack of attention to you, my lady,” he said after a few minutes. “I fear my hunger has overcome my good manners.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace. I am pleased to see a guest who is so appreciative of my uncle’s hospitality. You must have had a long ride?”

“Long and difficult.”

“And you are on your way to join the king, at York?” He frowned slightly at her words. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry...”

“As you said, there is nothing to forgive,” he replied. “No. I will not be joining the king at York. I mean to remain here.”

“At Hornby?” she asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“I must confess I am. We do not often receive visitors – well not of the welcome sort,” she added.

“I’m pleased you count me as welcome. As for the unwelcome I presume you speak of Lord Stanley,” he said, nodding permission to a servant to pour more wine into his cup. Anne watched him as he raised it to his lips and sipped. She was unsure what he knew of the dispute between her uncles and the Stanleys, but she could offer no other explanation for his coming.

He turned his vivid blue eyes on her again. There was a haughtiness about them that she had not noticed before. “Lord Stanley and I do not agree on many things,” he said, “one of them being your inheritance.” He hesitated as he replaced the cup with care on the bleached white cloth before continuing. “If my views cause you any offence, my lady, I can only apologise.”

“You cause me no offence,” she assured him.

“But you may not be aware that I have raised this matter with the king. I support the claim of your uncles to the Harrington inheritance. It seems to me only fair that the loyalty of your father and grandfather should not result in the loss of the family’s lands to Stanley. If that makes you dislike me then I am sorry.”

“I have no thought of disliking you!” she assured him, troubled that his earlier friendliness had been replaced by this cold tone.

“I would expect you to dislike a man who thinks your land and wealth should be taken from you.”

Anne shook her head slightly. “The inheritance makes me a prize to be awarded to a guardian of the king’s choosing. It is a fortune that does me no favours,” she said. “And I am not sure that my father would have wanted me and my sister to be left so vulnerable. I doubt it was his intention that Hornby should have passed to two children so young. He would have realised what trouble it would bring.”

As she spoke she realised that she was quoting words that her uncles, James and Robert, had repeated to her since she was old enough to comprehend them.

The duke nodded as she spoke. “I think you are right,” he said, “and that you are wise to see the reason in it. Had things been different at Wakefield and your father had died before your grandfather then Hornby would have passed to your uncle without question. It seems to me a disservice to your family that the king chooses to award your guardianship to Lord Stanley. The man is an opportunist who only wants Hornby to add to his power across Lancashire, which is already too widespread. Your welfare is not his concern, Lady Anne, and he will only seek to use you. I will do my utmost to make my brother see reason and to ensure that justice is done and that you are kept from Stanley’s control.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said as his face softened and he raised his cup to drink. “You are very kind,” she added as her imagination conjured images of St George, that gallant and brave knight who rode and fought the fearsome dragon to rescue the maiden who was held captive.

Anne did not remember much about her father, but she did remember the day, not long after her fifth birthday, when muddied and exhausted riders had arrived at Hornby Castle with their faces white from terror and exhaustion. She remembered how the men had crowded into the hall and spoken with hushed voices and how her mother had fallen to her knees and broken the silence by wailing and crying and calling on the name of the Lord God to save them all from the wickedness of such evil men.

It wasn’t until Anne was much older that the full tragedy and horror of that day had been revealed to her. Her grandfather, Sir Thomas Harrington, and her father, John, had both died at Wakefield fighting an army of rebel Lancastrians who were incensed at parliament’s decision to name the Duke of York as the heir to the throne. Led by the Duke of Somerset they supported the exiled queen Margaret of Anjou and were determined that the throne would pass to her son, Prince Edward.