By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (18 page)

When the candle was finished and the evening shadows began to creep from the high windows across the chapel walls, Anne rose and walked stiffly back to her apartments. She climbed to the nursery where she lifted her sleepy daughter from the crib and, resting the baby’s tiny head in the crook of her neck, she paced up and down the chamber still weeping silent tears. There was no one there to comfort her; her uncles and Isabella had gone to London to attend the wedding – and although Isabella had apologised again and again for this betrayal Anne had hugged her and told her to go and enjoy the day. She was to return north with the Gloucesters as they travelled to Middleham Castle. But Richard and Anne Neville would stay at Nottingham. She would not see him.

The letter that her Uncle Robert brought to her from Richard was formal, written by a secretary, and only signed in his own hand. It told her that he intended to come to visit his children.

“I cannot face him,” she said to her uncle when she had read the brief message. “It is too hard. Please may I stay with Isabella at Badsworth until he has been and gone?”

“The duke will be sorry not to see you,” said her uncle. “He asked me to send him an account of your well-being with my reply. He still loves you, Anne.”

“And I love him,” she replied, turning away to hide her hurt. “That is why I cannot see him,” she said as she turned the letter in her hands so that her eyes would not rest on his signature.

“He does not need your permission to come,” her uncle reminded her. “His diplomacy in asking your agreement to his seeing the children is laudable and I think you do him a disservice to run and hide.”

“But it is too hard,” she said again as tears flowed at her uncle’s harsh words. “How can I bear to see him now?”

“I think that my brother James should never have given you to the duke,” said her uncle with a touch of bitterness. “We knew that he would never marry you and it was done for our benefit rather than yours. I’m sorry for it,” he said. “I will write to say that you are at Badsworth.”

When she returned from her visit Anne found that the children had new clothes and toys and that John kept telling her, “Papa came!”

“His Grace was saddened not to see you,” remarked the nurse, and Anne left the nursery without a word and walked the castle grounds with her hood pulled over her face to hide her tears.

He sent gifts at Epiphany for the children and a beautifully illustrated book for Anne. He sent his regrets that he would not see her, but she knew that he meant he regretted that she would not see him. Whenever he sent word that he was coming to Pontefract, Anne made arrangements to visit Isabella and left John and Katherine with their nurse. It hurt her to know that he was only within a few miles of her, but she knew that it was nothing to the hurt she would feel if she saw him and had to be parted from him again.

Isabella seemed to understand and allowed her to talk and weep all through the days of her visits. She had her own baby now, a son named James. Anne was his godmother and she consoled herself by nursing him on her lap until it was time to return to her own children.

Early in the New Year she heard from her sister again. Izzie was with child for a second time and wrote that she would name the new baby Anne if it was a girl. She wrote of how London was in a flurry of preparation for the war with France and repeated the news that she had already heard from Isabella that her Uncle James had at last agreed to relinquish Hornby and was to ride to France as a knight of the body to the king.

A week later when John was sitting at a desk in the nursery and Anne was teaching him to form his name and Katherine was playing with a doll at their feet they all looked up at the sound of horses’ hooves. The nurse put down her sewing and went to enquire who had come. Expecting it to be a messenger from one of her uncles, Anne picked up Katherine and took John by the hand to follow the nurse down the steps to the great hall. But as she went down she could hear that the numbers of horses and men that were arriving were in far excess of mere messengers. From a narrow window she peered through the thick glass and could just make out a long train of loaded baggage carts and ranks of archers with their bows on their backs as they marched into the bailey.

She hesitated, wondering if it was safe for the children to remain with her. Then she froze as she heard Richard’s voice in the hall. Her heart beat so fast she thought it would run out of control like some skittish horse and she let go of her son’s hand to steady herself against the cold stone of the wall. Released from her grip, John ran on ahead of her and she had no choice but to follow him.

“Papa!” called John as he ran across to Richard who bent to embrace him. “What have you brought for me?”

“Wretched boy! Do you love me only for my gifts?” demanded Richard, ruffling his son’s dark hair with an affectionate smile. He looked across at Anne and scrutinised her with his stern blue eyes before coming to gently pinch his daughter’s cheek. “Are you well, little maid?” he asked her. Then he turned to the nurse. “Take the children to the nursery,” he said. “I will come to see you in a little while,” he promised them. “But first I must speak with your mother.”

Silently the nurse took Katherine from Anne and led a reluctant John away. Richard put down his gloves on the table and drank from the cup of wine that a servant had brought.

“Leave us!” he said to the men who had followed him in. “Go and find yourselves some food from the kitchens and make sure the horses are stabled and that the men find suitable ground to pitch their tents. Sit down,” he said to Anne as they left, “you look pale.”

“I did not expect you,” she said.

“No,” he told her with a glint of disapproval in his eyes. “If you had expected me you would have fled to Badsworth.”

She stared up at him, unable to wrench her gaze from his face. He looked the same, though why she thought his marriage should have changed him she couldn’t explain. As he watched her his severe expression softened.

“Are you well? You look – ”

“I am surprised, that is all.”

“Am I so daunting as to make you tremble so?” he asked. She looked down and clenched her hands tightly on her lap to try to steady herself but she could not. “I have enquired about you often,” he said.

“So my uncles tell me.”

“Anne, why do you avoid me?” he demanded.

“I... I...” She looked up at him again, at his blue eyes under the dark expressive eyebrows, the prominent nose, the strong chin. “I love you.” She had said it before she realised her thoughts were on her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said and moved to stand up, thinking that she must go away from him.

“Did I give you permission to leave?” he asked. “Sit down!” And she sank back onto the stool, not daring to look at him now.

“My lord, I apologise,” she whispered. He was silent for a moment then she heard him sigh.

“I am on my way to London to join the forces for the invasion of France,” he said, “but I wanted to speak to you about Hornby Castle. The king has been unmoveable on the matter and was much angered by your uncle’s occupation there. You know my views, Anne, but the matter is settled now.” She glanced up at him but he wasn’t looking at her. “This is no time for squabbles. Your Uncle James has accepted a position with the king to compensate him for his loss and your Uncle Robert will remain in my service. As to Hornby it will pass to the heirs you give your husband.”

“I will bear no Stanley heirs,” she told him. “The only children I want are the ones that you have given me.”

“Anne, do not be so hard on yourself. You are young. You -”

“Would you like to think of me in another man’s bed? As I have to think of you with another woman,” she burst out.

“That is enough!” he reprimanded her. “You do not speak to me of my wife in that manner!” A fresh shiver ran through her at the coldness of his rebuke. There was a long silence between them until he came across and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do not be unhappy because of me, Anne,” he said more gently. “When I leave here I will continue to London and the army will set sail for Calais. If I do not return...”

“Richard!” She reached to clasp his hand, but he withdrew it. “Do not speak of such things.”

“If I do not return,” he continued, “the children will be provided for from my household and I have arranged a small annuity for you as well. I wanted to reassure you on this matter before I leave. I... I needed to see you,” he confessed with a tightness in his voice.

She looked up and his eyes revealed his feelings.

“When do you leave?” she asked.

“At first light tomorrow. Whilst you and the children are still abed,” he said, meaning that he did not want her to watch him go. She nodded.

“My prayers will be with you. I will pray each night for your safety,” she told him.

“I will see the children now,” he said. “I have indeed brought gifts, though I hope I have no need to buy their affection. Will you take supper with me tonight?” he asked. “Please, Anne. Let us be friends,” he said when he saw her hesitation.

“I will,” she agreed after a moment, finding that she was already looking forward to having his company.

“And you will not hide from me in the future? You will be here when I come to visit the children?” She nodded her assent and he left her to go up to the nursery.

At supper he spoke of the coming war.

“Many feuds apart from the one between Stanley and your uncles have been settled,” he told her. “The king believes that we all need to pull together against a common enemy rather than fight amongst ourselves and that now is a good time to try to recoup some of our land lost in France. It will mean wealth and prosperity and peaceful living in England if we succeed.”

Watching him tearing at his bread as he spoke Anne could see the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of war and she feared for him, as she had so many times before when she knew that he was fighting. But she refrained from saying anything to him. It was not her place now and he didn’t seem to notice her meek demeanour, or at least he didn’t comment on it or tease her as he once would have.

It was still early when he said that he would go to his bed. “May I wish you goodnight?” he asked her. Anne stood up, hoping for at least a kiss on the cheek, but he took her hand and raised it to his lips and then he was gone. She knew that he would look in at the children before he retired but she did not follow him.

At first light she heard his army gathering at the castle gate and she went to the window, but it only overlooked the inner courtyard, which was empty. She waited until the sounds faded into the distance then returned to her bed and buried her face in the pillow, wondering if it was possible to feel more sorrow than she did at that moment.

All through the long hot days of that summer of 1475 Anne thought of Richard. Both she and Isabella watched and waited for news and when, at last, letters came they were almost too afraid to open them for fear of what they might contain. But as it turned out they had no need to fear. The war with France was over. In fact it had never begun. Not a shot had been fired, or sword unsheathed. Duke Charles of Burgundy had been reluctant to assist the English, owing to pressing concerns elsewhere, and Edward had made a treaty with the French. He had met with King Louis at Picquigny near Amiens and the French king had offered him seventy-five thousand crowns and another twenty-five thousand each year for as long as they both lived. He had also offered the marriage of his eldest son to one of the king’s daughters.

Safely home, Richard came to see her on his way to Middleham.

“I am to be a father again,” he told her. “My wife writes that she is with child and I pray that it will be a son.”

Anne stared at him as he sat on a small nursery stool with his daughter on his knee.

“I am pleased for you,” she said at last as she watched him kiss his daughter as tenderly as he used to kiss her.

The following spring, 1476, word came that a boy had been born to the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester at Middleham.

“There is much rejoicing,” Uncle Robert told her when he came to visit, “though it is a fragile babe, much like its mother.”

“What does the duchess look like?” asked Anne with sudden curiosity.

“She’s pretty enough and nice natured,” he said. Anne nodded, wondering if she would have been more content to hear that Anne Neville was ugly and bad tempered. “The baby is like her, small and fair. They have baptised him Edward,” said her uncle.

“The duke is pleased?” she asked.

“Of course. He dotes on the baby.”

Anne nodded, jealous of this new child that had been born legitimately. Yet it was his child too, she reminded herself, and because it was a part of him she could wish it no harm and she added little Edward to her daily prayers.

“The duchess’s sister Isabel also expects another child,” her uncle told her. “This will be her fourth. They hope for another boy this time.”

But the son born to Isabel in October was sickly and late in December a series of events began that shocked and bewildered Anne.

Uncle James had been given leave by the king to attend his own estates and she and the children had been invited to Brierley for the festive season. Anne was looking forward to being with her family again to celebrate the Nativity and set off in a happy mood on Christmas Eve, after saying mass in the chapel at Pontefract.

The journey was brief but cold and she was pleased to arrive at the manor house and be offered spiced wine and a chair by the fire to warm herself. Uncle Robert and Isabella with their baby, James, had come as well. All it needed, reflected Anne, was her sister to make the reunion complete, but Izzie and her husband were still in London and were hoping to be summoned to court.

Uncle James had just come to greet her when a messenger arrived. The man looked frozen and her uncle bid him warm himself in the kitchen and take some food before he returned. Then he sat down beside her to read and she watched his expectant face grow serious as he scanned the words.

“What is it?” she asked, forever fearing that she might receive bad news about Richard.

“Isabel Warwick is dead,” he told her. “She died two days ago. Her little son still lives, but is sickly. This is sorry news indeed, so close to Christmas.”

Anne thought about her own experiences of childbirth – the pain, the fear, the danger of bleeding and of childbed fever and she was thankful that she had survived twice. She hadn’t known Isabel Warwick but she was saddened by the news of her death and felt sorry for her other children, Margaret and Edward, who had lost their mother.

But it wasn’t until Isabella received a letter from Robert in the early spring that Anne realised how momentous that piece of news had been.