By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (9 page)

They came down the stairs, clutching their billowing skirts.

“You look quite beautiful,” whispered Sir William as she laid her hand on his brown velvet sleeve, fashionably slashed to reveal glimpses of a white silk shirt beneath. He escorted her to the Stanley carriage with its covered canopy in the crimson and blue Stanley colours. A moment later Lady Stanley joined them with her two elder sons.

“Where is Lord Stanley?” asked Anne as they moved off, out onto the street to the half-hearted cheering of the assembled crowd.

“He has gone with my brother to bring the king from the Tower,” said Lady Stanley. “They will parade him through the streets of London for everyone to see - in defiance of those who rumoured that he no longer lived, or that he had become too mad to attend his own coronation.”

Anne said nothing but couldn’t help recall the things Uncle James had said about the king. The thought of her uncle made her worry anew about where he was. Had he and Uncle Robert fled as well? And if so what would happen to Hornby Castle?

They made slow progress through the crush and when they reached the church Anne realised she had to get down and walk through the crowd to the door. She hesitated, hanging back and wishing that she could stay in the carriage.

“Come!” said Sir William, handing the reins of his horse to a squire. “I will clear a path for you.” And with his switch and his tongue he lashed people right and left so that they stepped back onto one another’s toes to make way for them.

St Paul’s was a magnificent building. When Anne went inside and saw the light shining down from the lantern tower above the nave she thought it was like divine radiance, and she crossed herself and made a silent prayer for the safety of those she loved.

She had expected some reverence once inside the church, but she was disappointed. It was barely more peaceful than it had been on the streets. People were talking and laughing and standing on tiptoes to look around to see who had come and who had chosen to stay away. How quickly people’s allegiances altered, thought Anne. They considered only their own fortunes. Only a few months ago most of these people would have sworn their loyalty to King Edward, but now they supported Warwick and Margaret of Anjou without question; or at least without any public question.

A hush moved across the church, beginning at the door and making its way eastwards like a wave. Izzie gripped her hand and Anne peered towards the doorway to try to see what was happening.

“It’s the king,” whispered Izzie as the turning of heads gave way to bows and curtseys.

Anne watched as the procession came closer. A man, whom she thought must be the Earl of Warwick, led a shambling figure in a long, faded gown of blue velvet. The man stared about him in incomprehension; his eyes wild, confused and a little fearful as they darted from face to face. Lord Stanley followed him and when they reached the chancel steps he urged the man towards the throne that had been placed ready for him and nodded to the priest to bring forward the incense and the oil.

So this was the king, thought Anne. How right her uncle had been when he described him as mad and not fit to rule. The man seemed to have no understanding of what was going on and Anne felt sorry for him. The crowd, now silent, watched as the head, hands and breast of the king were bared and anointed. The crown of Edward the Confessor was replaced on his head and he was handed the sceptre and the orb. Then he repeated the vows, prompted by the priest, as a child might speak the words of a lesson not comprehended – and the atmosphere of jubilation and anticipation that had held London in its grasp seemed to fade as the congregation watched. Anne, it seemed, was not alone in her fear for the future.

With a fanfare of trumpets, the king was led away and Anne felt Sir William touch her arm. She glanced up and saw that he too looked troubled at the events he had just witnessed.

“It is time to go,” he said. “There is a banquet to attend. Stay close to me and I will see you safely to the hall.”

They walked in procession through the gathered throngs to the palace at Westminster, where, under the high hammerbeam roof, the bewildered king sat on another throne, his thin hands gripping the arms of the chair as he stared around, and it was the Earl of Warwick, with Lord Stanley close by his side, who was greeting the assembled guests.

“These are my wards, the lady Anne Harrington and her sister Elizabeth,” said Lord Stanley. “From Hornby Castle,” he added as Anne looked up at Warwick, the traitor she had heard so much about. He studied her for a moment.

“What of Hornby?” he asked, turning his attention back to Lord Stanley. “Is it in your possession yet?”

“James Harrington still holds it,” said Lord Stanley with a shrug of irritation. “He fled back there and claims it is his. But,” he added with a slight smile, “I will ensure he does not hold it much longer.”

“Good man!” laughed Warwick, patting Lord Stanley’s shoulder with resounding slaps. “Now all you need to do is marry your wards wisely and it will be Stanley property for ever.”

“Indeed, that is my intention.”

Anger rose in Anne as she listened to the men. Their casual talk of marriages made the blood fire her cheeks, but they turned away to greet some other nobles and she was left standing alone with Izzie, of no more consequence than a horse for sale at the market.

The celebration continued until it was very late. The king fell asleep on his throne, his head lolling to one side and a trail of saliva running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Izzie joined in the dancing, quickly learning the steps from a succession of attentive admirers whilst Anne stood by and watched and politely refused all invitations to join in.

“Do you not like to dance?” asked Sir William, coming to stand beside her and bending to whisper in her ear. His beard touched her cheek and she resisted the urge to push him away.

“I am tired,” she said, “and my legs ache.”

“Then let me find you a seat,” he said, leading her towards a bench at the edge of the room. Anne sat down, her toe tapping to the rhythm of the music despite herself and she wished that she could enjoy the day as much as Izzie, who seemed to be finding delight in each turn and clap of the carole.

Sir William sat down beside her, his legs spread wide and his knee touching hers, following it even when she moved her leg away.

“How delightful you look in your new gown. You will make a wife that a man will be pleased to have on his arm – and in his bed,” he remarked as his hand closed over hers for a moment then brushed across her thigh. He had been drinking heavily and his breath smelled sour as he bent towards her and kissed her cheek. Anne tried to move from his grasp but she was trapped by the dancers who were skipping past in a never-ending chain. “I have asked my brother to consider me when choosing a husband for you, Anne,” he told her, his hand now squeezing her leg just above the knee. “I think that you will enjoy having me as a husband as much as I will enjoy having you to wife.”

Anne could think of nothing worse than having to endure his attentions in the bedchamber and knowing what would be expected of her made it even harder. She tried to move away but he edged ever nearer and it was with a feeling of relief that she looked up to see Lord Stanley standing before them, even if his stare of displeasure betrayed his belief that she was content to allow Sir William to touch her in such an inappropriate manner.

“It is time for my wards to leave,” he said in a level voice that did not quite disguise his anger.

Outside the night was cold and Anne shivered as she looked up at the clear, star-filled sky. Lady Stanley looked tired and tense, but Izzie glowed with energy and seemed not to notice that Anne remained silent as they travelled back along the quiet streets. “I wish I could stay in London forever,” she enthused and Anne formed the opinion that her sister had drunk far more wine than was seemly for a young lady.

The next morning as Anne watched Izzie groan and hold her head because of the pain and the sick feeling in her stomach, a servant came up with a message that Lord Stanley wanted them.

As Anne went down the stairs she guessed what the interview would be about. Lord Stanley was not a man to take chances and she knew that her marriage was the only way he could secure the ownership of Hornby Castle.

The family was gathered in the solar that overlooked the river. Lord Stanley was warming himself with his back to the fire and Lady Stanley sat near him on her high-backed wooden chair, her hands folded on her lap. Neither looked as if they had been up late the previous night and Anne was aware that by comparison she looked tired and drawn. She had lain awake until dawn, crying and praying that she might be delivered from this fate, and the mirror in the bedchamber had reflected a white-faced girl with down-turned lips and dark circles under her reddened eyes.

“I hope you slept well?” said Lord Stanley. “I have something important to say,” he went on without waiting for any answer to his query. “As you know it is my honour to be your guardian. And although the appointment was made by the Yorkist, Edward, our present true king, Henry, God bless him,” and he paused to make the sign of the cross before continuing, “King Henry has agreed that my guardianship should continue.”

Anne thought that it was scarce possible for the king to understand or agree to anything and she surmised that it was the Earl of Warwick who spoke on his behalf, although the detail made no difference.

“As your guardian,” continued Lord Stanley, “it is my duty to match you with suitable and loving husbands. And whilst we are gathered together, here, for these most joyous celebrations, my wife and I...” he paused to nod towards Lady Stanley who similarly inclined her head in agreement... “we have decided that it would be an additional pleasure to arrange your betrothals. Elizabeth,” he continued, holding out a hand towards Izzie, “you will be wed to my nephew John.”

Izzie smiled for the first time that morning and her aching head seemed quite forgotten as she placed her hand on that of the boy who had stepped forward and given her a formal bow. Anne recognised him as the same boy who had spent much of the previous evening with his hand on Izzie’s waist teaching her dance steps.

“You will be betrothed now, but not formally married until John is fourteen,” said Lord Stanley as he watched the couple with satisfaction. At least Izzie seemed happy with the arrangement, thought Anne. She supposed that she ought to be glad. It was better than having to deal with a sister who was weeping and fearful at the prospect of her marriage.

“And Anne...” began Lord Stanley and she glanced around the room to see if Sir William was nursing as bad a headache as he deserved, but was surprised to find him absent. How could her betrothal be announced without him, she wondered, as she allowed Lord Stanley to take her hand. “Anne, I will welcome you as a daughter of my own.”

Confused at his words, Anne looked at the two boys standing beside their mother. George, the eldest son and Stanley heir, was only a few years younger than herself and Anne was surprised that Lord Stanley thought she was important enough to merit such a match. “Anne,” he continued. “You will be betrothed to my son Edward.”

Anne stared at the thin, pale boy. He could be no more than seven or eight years old. He was just a child. “But...” she began in dismay, wondering if this was a worse or better fate than becoming the wife of Sir William.

Anne bid a distraught farewell to her sister, and Izzie clung to her neck until Lord Stanley became impatient and told them both to stop being so foolish. Then she was ushered into the carriage for the long journey north. It was cold and lonely as the first of the autumnal frosts iced the lowland fields. But Lathom House looked inviting as they approached and Anne hoped that living there would not be as bad as she imagined.

When she was shown to a chamber with a soft bed and blue hangings she relaxed a little. The windows were wide and let in plenty of light; the view of the parkland, though not impressive, was pleasant enough and she decided that if this was to be her new home then perhaps it would be bearable, although being parted from her sister still made her ache with distress.

Although the vows of a pre-marriage contract had been exchanged before a priest in the small chapel at Stanley House before they left London, Anne’s guardian was not content and she was soon married to Edward Stanley at Burscough Priory.

Wearing a new gown of blue, covered with a fur-lined cloak against the chill of the damp November day, she stood beside him at the door of the church as the prior gave them God’s blessing. Edward’s voice sounded childlike as he made his vows and as they knelt on the chancel steps to solemnise their union with the holy mass, Anne found that she could look down on the top of his blond head. But this was, at least for the time being, a marriage in name only to secure her inheritance for Lord Stanley. It would not be consummated until Edward was fourteen years of age. That was still six years away and Anne knew that as some of his brothers and sisters had died in childhood there was the possibility that he might not even live that long. In the meantime he was to train as a knight and she was to live at Lathom as a companion to Lady Stanley.

Her uncle still held Hornby and the irritation and anger on Lord Stanley’s face when he returned from North Lancashire filled her with a mixture of trepidation and glee. He had supposed that once she and her sister were in his power that James Harrington would meekly hand over the keys, but he had not taken into account her uncle’s tenacity or the fact that the Earl of Warwick had other matters more pressing to concern him and was not minded to give time to what he had dismissed as a petty dispute.

Sir William had been invited to her wedding but had ridden off from the house in London with a scowl on his face the day after the coronation.

“He has gone to France,” Lady Stanley told her one afternoon as they sat together embroidering in the fading light of the chamber. “My niece is to be married to Edward of Lancaster, the Prince of Wales.”

It was a moment before Anne, half-heartedly jabbing at her fabric with a blunt needle, realised the significance of this news.

“The Earl of Warwick’s daughter, Anne Neville?” she asked, remembering that this was the girl whom Richard had expected to marry.

“Yes. They are to be married next month at Angers Cathedral. She will be the next queen of England.”

“How old is the prince?” asked Anne, wondering if it was a marriage that would be consummate or just another thread in the net that Warwick was weaving around himself.

“He is seventeen,” replied Lady Stanley, her eyes fixed on her work. “And my niece Anne is fifteen – much the same age as you. It is a good age for a marriage. Hopefully she will soon bear an heir for the prince - a boy first if she is blessed.” Lady Stanley paused and, after fixing her needle to the shirt she was stitching, she laid a hand over Anne’s in an awkward gesture of affection. “Your husband will grow up too,” she said. “Be patient and give him time. He will become a good man. And you are still young. There is time for him to father your children.”

Anne stared at the white, bejewelled hand and then moved hers away from beneath it. She would never permit Edward Stanley to touch her. She had already decided that.

They remained at Lathom for Christmas and her young husband came for the festivities. Anne watched as the small boy, accompanied by a squire, rode his overlarge bay horse up to the house. Having slid down the length of the horse’s flank to the ground he ran towards his mother. Lady Stanley wrapped him in a warm embrace before kissing his travel-stained cheeks and smoothing down his fair hair. Then she held him before her at arm’s length and declared that he had grown at least six inches since she had last seen him. He laughed at her exaggeration, clearly delighted, until his eyes strayed to Anne and a look of distaste suddenly replaced his joy at his homecoming.

“My lord,” she said, stepping forward from the doorway where she had been watching. He bowed his head towards her.

“Kiss your wife!” encouraged his mother. “She has waited patiently for your return.”

Anne bent awkwardly and proffered her cheek to the boy who put his lips to her skin; his face was as soft and smooth as her own. Then he turned away to talk to his mother who put her hand on his slender shoulder as they went inside. Anne followed, excluded from the family reunion. She had never felt so alone. She wondered where Richard was celebrating his Christmas and whether he ever thought about her – or if he had forgotten their time together as a transient memory of a summer day is lost in the darkness of winter’s battle for survival.

Christmas at Lathom was a more lavish affair than anything Anne had seen before. But she did not find much joy in the celebrations, just a gnawing discomfort at the house being filled with cheerful strangers of whom she knew nothing. Her husband spoke to her only a handful of times. They were seated together at table and so he could not avoid her then, but other than clumsily serving her or giving her formal greetings he acted as if she didn’t exist, except for his resentful glances. The only person he wanted to be with was his mother and, although Anne continued to sit with Lady Stanley in the afternoons, she began to feel she was as invisible as a servant to be ignored by both mother and son.

She took some small comfort from the feasting with its rich and spicy foods, the warm sweetness of the mulled wine, and the musicians and actors who came to entertain them, but the best day was when her sister Izzie came with her betrothed, John, from his parents’ home in Cheshire to celebrate the Twelfth Night.

Anne had been waiting for the visitors all day, returning again and again to the thickly glazed window of her chamber to watch for them coming. She had not seen Izzie since they were parted in London and she missed her desperately.

At last they came. Izzie was riding on a dappled grey palfrey, wrapped against the cold in a dark blue cloak, her eyes sparkling and her face glowing pink. Anne paused a moment, jealously, before all thoughts of herself were forgotten and she ran to enclose her sister in her arms.

“Izzie, you look so well. You look so happy,” she whispered, holding her close and enjoying the familiarity of the physical contact.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” she asked as she wriggled from Anne’s grasp and glanced towards John with a look of satisfaction.

“Then I am happy for you,” said Anne as she led her sister inside and showed her to the bedchamber that they were to share for the duration of the visit.

“Are they kind to you?” she asked as Izzie threw her cloak across the bed and, without waiting for a servant to assist her, began to pull linen and stockings out of her travelling coffer and drape them around the room until it resembled the untidy chamber at Hornby where they used to sleep.

“Of course,” she said as she stripped off her soiled clothes and washed, not even seeming to feel the cold. “And the house is comfortable, even in wintertime, and there is plenty to eat...”

“And your betrothed?”

Izzie paused with the wet cloth in her hand and smiled widely. “He is wonderful,” she said and Anne saw that her sister was in love.

“You’re fortunate,” she said as she folded the soiled clothes that had been cast aside. At least one of them had found happiness, she thought, as she watched her sister draw on clean stockings over her smooth long legs.

Downstairs the Yule log was still burning in the hearth and the hall was decked with evergreen boughs. One of the kitchen boys whose usual job was to turn the roasting meat was crowned King of Misrule and allowed to choose the games – although Anne noticed that he did nothing without first looking to Lord Stanley for a nod of approval. She guessed that he had been given instruction on what he could and could not suggest and nothing too riotous took place.

The visitors stayed until after the feast of the Epiphany and although Anne was glad to be with her sister again she couldn’t help but notice that Izzie showed little interest in her own situation. Apart from a brief acknowledgement that Anne had had a lucky escape from Sir William and that Edward was still too young to be a real husband to her, Izzie’s talk was all of John and her new life. And although Anne was relieved that Izzie was content, it seemed that the Stanleys had stolen her sister away from her, and as she waved goodbye, one morning in January when the hoar frost still clung to the trees around Lathom House, she felt more isolated and alone than she could ever have imagined.

The motion of the boat on the shifting waves was making Robert Harrington feel queasy as a strong wind filled the sails and drove them toward the English coast. The Duke of Gloucester was standing in the prow with the cold wind tangling his dark hair across his face. His hat had blown off three times and he now held it in his hand as he watched bareheaded for sight of the small harbour where they would make landfall.

Robert’s stomach heaved and he leant over the rail and watched the spellbinding movement of the grey water slapping against the wooden hull. He wondered how much longer his guts would withstand the constant motion, and it was with relief that he heard an excited voice shout that a fishing village had been sighted through the low coastal mist. Standing at the very end of a strip of narrow land that jutted out from the Yorkshire coast it looked unprepossessing. Yet they could hardly have sailed a fleet of ships straight into Hull and the king’s orders were to come ashore discreetly. Their small force, although backed with men, money and goodwill from Burgundy, was not yet numerous enough to fight and their objective was to take a quiet toehold on England and trust to God and their Yorkist supporters that Edward could reclaim his throne from Warwick’s puppet king.

Rumours had abounded at the Burgundian court, but credible sources spoke of the Duke of Clarence’s discontent that the crown had not been placed on his own head. The king’s sister had sent letters, conveyed by trusted messengers, urging Clarence to accept Edward’s right to be king and to be reconciled with him. No promise had been forthcoming, but there was hope. Though it would need more than hope to keep them alive and see them prevail, thought Robert, watching the startled fishermen look up from mending their nets as the fleet of boats approached out of the fog.

The duke was first off the boat, scarcely before it was secured to the iron ring sunk into the wharf. He bent one knee to the wet ground and crossed himself in thanks to God and then ran his slender fingers through his salt-coated hair. “I will not run a third time,” he vowed. “From this day on I will fight for what is rightfully mine, for my king and for my country.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Robert, after giving similar thanks to have reached the shore without his stomach disgracing him. He turned to watch as planks were laid from ship to shore and the grooms began to coax the snorting, anxious horses onto dry land. The sickness was now replaced with the fluttering feeling that came before a battle. Not fear exactly but apprehension and Robert, watching the duke greet and hand largesse to the awestruck villagers, hoped and prayed that all of the north would be as pleased as these poor Yorkshiremen that Edward Plantagenet had returned.

Robert longed to see Isabella again. He hoped that she had not believed any rumours she might have heard about his death. Although it had been possible to correspond with some trusted lords in England, letters to a squire’s betrothed were not a matter of importance and he had been unable to let her know that he was safe and would return to claim her as his bride.

Word had come that the queen had given birth to Edward’s firstborn son at Westminster and had named him for his father. Well, first legitimately born, mused Robert, as he pondered on the king’s roving eye for any pretty woman who would bestow a favour on him. Although it was said he was entranced by the queen and loved her passionately, marrying her in defiance of Warwick who had been negotiating for a match with a French princess, it had not prevented him from pursuing several dalliances amongst the court at Burgundy. His sister Margaret and his brother-in-law had seemed indulgent, regarding it as an endearing weakness in his character that had no matter, but young Diccon had, on occasion, frowned darkly at Edward’s lack of self-control and on one evening in particular as he and Robert had sat in an alcove of the great hall, absenting themselves from the rest of the court, the duke had spoken about the lady Anne.

“I am aware that your brother sent her to my bedchamber as a bribe,” he said. “It was not necessary. I had already taken you both into my service.”

“But you did not send her away.”

“I tried,” explained Richard. “But she was anxious that your brother would be angry with her. I slept on a pallet that night and she alone in my bed.”

“So she remains a virgin?”

Robert wondered if the duke was experienced himself. Diccon had always excluded himself from bawdy talk at Middleham, preferring the company of the women’s chamber to men’s ribaldry. Perhaps he was in need of a more knowing woman than a fifteen year old girl.

“No,” admitted Richard. “She came to me willingly enough the next day. I would not have taken her against her will,” he said, looking up at Robert with his clear blue eyes. “It is not my way to force a woman for my pleasure,” he said, his glance straying across the hall to where Lord Hastings had a servant girl pinned against the wall and was smiling in apparent pleasure at her reluctance to allow him to plunge a hand inside her unlaced gown. “I think your brother had hopes of a marriage,” he said after a moment.