Virgin Widow (37 page)

Master Hough had thought that he could see an end, but I was not convinced. How long would I stay here? Until Richard had paid his promised visit, decided that I had left London of my own free will
and given up, to chase after me to Tewkesbury or Warwick or on whatever goose-chase Clarence sent him? How could I be sure that Clarence would release me, even then, from this drudgery? Was this to be my life for ever?

Did no one miss me
now,
enough to come and find me?

No one would recognise me, of that I was certain. No one would see anything other than an ill-dressed, grubby kitchen girl, rank and unwashed, with soot on her face and scars on her hands. Margery did not come near. She would not dare.

Three nights after I was hidden away, as I sank with a groan on to my pallet, I felt the hard edges immediately beneath me. Under cover of darkness, I turned back the thin cover. My box. Margery must have sent it to remind me that I was not alone. Absurdly, as I opened it, it renewed my flagging hopes as I saw in the dim light that she had also rescued my Book of Hours and tucked it inside. I did not look further beneath the book, fearing that the contents would remind me too strongly of past happiness and would weaken my resolve. A metal bird that I could not bear to be parted from. A pair of stolen embroidered gauntlets. Items of such little intrinsic value, but immeasurably comforting to me. That night I lay awake with the box in my arms.
Would Richard come to find me? When would he come? If he did, would there be any hope
of his discovering me?
The questions were endless and unanswerable. Except that, as the days passed, I feared the final answer was no.

The warning came from an unexpected source.

‘Gloucester’s here,’ Master Hough murmured one morning after the household had broken its fast, hardly moving his lips as he stirred a dish of pea pottage. ‘He’s with my noble lord of Clarence, God rot him!’

My fingers gripped hard on the edge of the pewter platter I carried. At last! But to what avail? Richard might be here, but there was nothing I could do about it. Within the hour he would ride away with no intimation that I was hidden under his nose. I glanced towards the kitchen door. If I ran, now, could I make it up the stairs and into the private rooms before anyone could lay hands on me?

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Mater Hough muttered. ‘His Grace of Clarence has guards stationed. You’d not get within a stone’s throw.’

Inwardly I groaned. No, there was nothing I could do.

Or was there? I had only this one chance to take my fate into my own hands, shake it and determine its direction. How could I not even try? I cast about for some action I might take.

Under my pallet. Of course. The wooden box still lay hidden and within it, under the Book of Hours, was what I needed. If ever there was a time to toss the
dice in a dangerous gamble, it was now. I must do it now! Abandoning the platter, I fled the kitchen with an excuse of visiting the privy. When I returned, Richard’s magnificent gloves were tucked into the filthy bodice of my tunic.

‘Master Hough.’ I stepped close under pretext of recovering the platter. ‘Would you give something to his Grace of Gloucester for me? If I asked it of you?’

His eyes were bright with curiosity. I saw no denial there.

‘Would you see that his Grace gets these?’

I revealed the gloves, risking all. If he refused, God help me…Chin tilted, he looked at me, then took them with a brusque nod, pushing them into his belt as Master Pritchard bustled through the door. For the rest of the morning he went about his tasks as if nothing had passed between us, leaving me to hang precariously on my last spider’s thread of hope. The gloves, at some point, disappeared from Master Hough’s belt.

Surely Richard would recognise them, the sumptuous embroidered emblems. How could he not recall my petulant confiscation of them in the chapel at Warwick? He would know and he would find me.

The day slid, hot and grimy, towards evening.

My ruse failed. No one came to rescue me.

Gloucester presumably left Cold Harbour, accepting Clarence’s lies. The gloves either did not find their
way into his hands or he had no recollection of them, of the circumstances of their loss. That smallest speck of hope dwindled to nothing. Weary to my bones, when I went to my bed I wept in despair, caring nothing for my pride or who heard me.

R
UNNING
feet sounded, pounding on the stair, echoing in the corridor. A stumble and slide followed by a sharp curse. One of the serving lads, Jem, hurtled through the door in search of some source of authority with terror on his face.

‘We’re under attack, Master Hough,’ he gasped, lungs heaving. ‘Soldiers broken in!’

I had awoken heavy eyed and dull, slow to get into the daily routine. It took a moment for my brain to pick apart the words. And simply rejected them. Master Hough was also unmoved, hardly looking up from the dough he was shaping into round breads. ‘Nonsense, boy! We’re at peace, or so the King says. Who’d attack this house?’

‘They’re in, I swear it. Through the gates. Courtyard’s full of ‘em.’

‘Lancastrians, were they? The Queen of Anjou herself, come to break her fast with his Grace of Clarence?’

‘Didn’t stop to see, Master.’ Jem oblivious to the heavy irony and the smirks around him. ‘But no women. Horses and weapons. And soldiers. Dozens of ‘em.’ His eyes gleamed, whether in fear or excitement.

‘Well, I dare say that’ll put his Grace’s nose out of joint, so early in the day.’ Master Hough hefted a pallet of loaves and headed for the oven.

‘Do I bar the door, Master Hough?’

‘Don’t be foolish, lad. Too late for that, if they’re through the gates. Just pray they’re out for the blood of the nobility, not the loyal citizens of London like you and me. Get back there, Jem. Let me know only if my kitchens are to be overrun by a rabble of military.’ He rubbed flour from his hands with the resignation of a man who had seen it all over the years. ‘If we’re to be taken prisoner, I’ll not bother to start to roast the pig.’

Despite the general disbelief, we stood about, unable to concentrate on any task. I read fear on the faces round me. War had brought siege to other noble households in London, ending in capture and execution of master and servants. Yet who would lead Lancaster with both old King Henry and the Prince dead? Jem returned at the run.

‘You won’t believe it! By God, you won’t! It’s Gloucester!’

‘Ha! Then I suppose we’d better start roasting the pig after all. An invasion, forsooth! Just the Constable
come to pay a courtesy call on his brother. You been drinking too much ale, Jem?’

But Jem was afire with news—and I, no longer heavy and unresponsive but light-headed with the possibility of escape, fell on every word of it, my fingers holding on to the edge of the table as if my life depended on it. ‘Not a
visit,
Master Hough! They’ve got weapons drawn. And you should hear the shouting from Clarence’s rooms—enough to wake the Devil himself. Don’t know what’s going on, but they’re at each other’s throats There’ll be blood spilt between them before this day’s out. You’ll see!’

Blood drained from my face, from my hands, until I felt icy cold in the heat of the kitchens. A darkness clouded my vision so that I held tight. He’d come. At last—my captivity would be over. How could I have doubted him?
Breathe!
I instructed myself.
All you have to do is wait.
The noise began to reach us now, a distant hum and rumble of men on the move. The thud of booted feet, a mass of voices. Occasional shouted orders.

‘Sounds like they’re searching the house.’ The Cook tilted his head, listening, then shrugged his inability to prevent whatever might occur. But Steward Pritchard pushed his way into the room, thrusting aside Jem, who still hovered in the doorway.

‘Master Hough…’ Flustered as I had never seen
him, flushed of face, Master Pritchard’s eyes flickered round the room in a distracted manner, coming to rest on me. Stopped there. Without a word he swooped, took my arm in an ungentle grip and would have dragged me from the room, again shouldering aside any who stood in his way.

‘No…!’ Rescue at hand, the days of my role as biddable servant were over.

I thought the Steward hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘His Grace’s orders are that you come with me.’

‘No. I won’t.’ I would not be hidden away. My only chance of rescue was to remain where I was, in full view. If they were searching the house, they would surely come here. I would not be locked away behind some solid door where I would never be found, where I might die and my body never be discovered until I was a mouldering skeleton. In the fear of such a happening my imagination leapt to the extreme, lending force to my resistance. Master Pritchard was far larger, stronger than I, but I planted my feet and tore at his grip with my hands.

‘Help me here!’ Pritchard ordered.

No one did. They simply looked at us with a kind of awakening horror at the eruption of violence in their midst. The Steward tried to grab my other arm but I used my fists against his chest.

‘I won’t be locked away. How dare you? Take your hands off me.’ All dignity was gone, all sense of exerting
the authority of my name, to be replaced with a mindless terror. Now that freedom was so close, I would fight as a vixen in a hunter’s trap. I used my foot against the Steward’s shin, my nails against his hands, encouraged by his grunt of pain, but I could not break his hold. I was being dragged towards the door.

‘His Grace’s orders must be followed,’ Master Pritchard muttered through clenched teeth.

‘What’s this, then?’

A sergeant-at-arms, sword drawn, blocked the doorway, men at his back. All eyes were drawn to him and the gleam of the metal blade. We had been so busy in the mêlée that we had not taken notice of the approach.

‘What’s going on?’ he repeated, advancing further as the knot of servants fell back.

A spiked silence fell, with more than one set of eyes sliding towards me.

‘What do you want, here in my kitchen, sergeant?’ Wiping his hands on a rag at his waist, Master Hough looked as if he would rather be any place but here.

‘We’re instructed by my lord of Gloucester to search for Lady Anne Neville. We’re led to believe she’s somewhere in the house.’ The officer looked round the kitchen, boredom writ clear, over the Cook and Steward, the maidservants. His glance understandably swept over me, smooth as butter. I doubt he saw Pritchard’s fingers dig into the flesh of my upper arm.
He certainly did not see the King’s cousin and sister-in-law in the kitchen wench being taken to task for some misdemeanour.

The Steward drew himself to his full pompous height. ‘I doubt you’re likely to find a high-born lady such as the Lady Anne here.’ His fingers dug deeper yet. ‘The Lady has already gone to Tewkesbury, as I’m sure his Grace of Clarence has made plain.’

‘Not true!’ No amount of pain would keep me quiet. I stood straight and fixed my eyes on the sergeant, praying that he would see below the surface grime. ‘I am Anne Neville.’

The guffaw was not unexpected, I suppose. I might try for confident dignity, but it could not offset my servile appearance. What a marvellous disguise Clarence had chosen. I doubt at that moment that even my mother would have recognised me. The sergeant laughed at my presumption. ‘Are you now, mistress? And very haughty you are too. And I’m the King of France. Good day to you.’ He made a mock bow.

‘No! You must listen…’

With a hand lifted in apology to Master Hough, the sergeant would have turned on his heel, not even bothering to make a search. They were leaving. My rescue faded before me as a morning dream.

‘Sergeant. It is not as it seems…’ I heard the plea in my voice, but he didn’t.

Then when I could have wept from frustration, they fell back against the wall to allow passage along the corridor. The fall of soft boots. And Gloucester stood in the kitchens, the sergeant snapping to attention.

‘Nothing here, your Grace.’

‘I think there is if my information is correct…’

Cloaked in velvet, jewels bright on his breast and in his hat, his magnificence incongruous in this setting, Gloucester stared round in uncompromising fashion. One hand clenched white fingered on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard; I thought it would not take much to push him to draw and use it. He was grim-faced, unsmiling; his eyes swept the occupants of the kitchen much as the sergeant’s had done, lingering on the Cook and Steward, moving over me, then on…

They snapped back, instantly arrested, certainly astonished, with a quickly hidden glint of sheer amusement at what had been done, doubtless at seeing the Neville heiress, cross and filthy, glaring at him when he failed to recognise her. But any humour was rapidly replaced with sheer anger as he acknowledged what he saw, me under restraint, Master Pritchard’s hands heavy on my arms. He took a step forwards, dangerous, menacing.

‘So you are entertaining the Princess in the kitchens. An unusual circumstance, even for Clarence’s household.’

‘Your Grace. I can explain—’

‘I doubt it. Take your hand from her arm.’ The hands dropped away. No one would defy Gloucester in this mood. ‘You will answer for this if the lady is harmed, Master Steward.’

But his attention was now all for me, the grim lines of his face softening in what might almost have been a smile, as he removed his hat and bowed low before me.

‘Your Highness. I would not have expected to find you here. I have come to pay my respects.’

And the weight was suddenly, miraculously lifted from my heart. Richard was here, he had found me. Enjoying his amusement at my expense that lifted the horror of it all, relief flowing through me from head to foot, I picked up my disgusting skirts with soot-smeared hands and swept a curtsy worthy of the Princess he had called me.

‘And not before time, your Grace. I had hoped to see you some days ago.’ Levity swirled in me, an instantaneous joy, tempting me to laugh aloud.

‘So I think.’

I saw the anger return, tightening the muscles in his jaw, but he kept it close as he held out his hand. I placed mine there as if we were at some royal audience. Again I felt the urge to laugh. How ridiculous, the royal duke and the kitchen wench. He raised my hand to his lips in a grand gesture, but not before his fingers had smoothed over the roughness there. As he lifted his
head, his stare bright with fury holding mine, I knew that, even without words, he sensed what I had suffered so that it soothed all the wounds.

‘You should not have been subjected to this.’ His lips barely brushed my fingers, but they were more a balm than any potion of Master Hough’s, on my hand and on my heart.

‘How did you know?’ I asked.

‘You sent the gloves.’

‘But that I was
here.
‘

‘Margery told me. She wept at my feet.’

Keeping hold of me, he stepped back, to lead me out as if I were the greatest of ladies in silks and precious stones. I stopped in the doorway to look back. Grasped his hand hard, remembering his words of retribution to Pritchard, the grim expression in his face. So I smiled at Master Hough.

‘You were kind to me. I thank you for it.’ Looking up at Richard, I assured him, ‘I was treated well. They followed orders because they were threatened with dismissal, but I was not mistreated.’

‘You have my gratitude.’ Richard inclined his head gravely, drawing me after him. By now his impatience was a palpable thing even as I took the time to recover my precious box. As we walked along the corridor, he stripped off his cloak to wrap it around me, pulling up the hood to shield me from any interested gaze with a thoughtfulness that almost undermined my
control. Then we were out, into the light and fresh air of the courtyard.

Freedom.

Unless Clarence chose to bar the way.

It was a shock to step out into the world again. With the light bright, the winter sun surprisingly warm on my face, I felt that I had been incarcerated for far longer than the endless weeks it had been. The noise and bustle of the troops in the courtyard startled me, a considerable force still returning from their search of the property and milling in noisy disarray, all bearing the white-boar livery. Directing his escort to mount, Richard led me across to where his squire held his horse. Where he would take me, I did not know, but neither did I care, only that I should never set foot in Cold Harbour again. Soon, very soon, I would ride through those gates to freedom.

It was not to be, as I must have known. Not without a confrontation.

Clarence was waiting for us. Not Isabel, as I saw immediately. Isabel had made herself scarce, probably watching even now, spying on us through one of the windows that glinted as so many eyes around the courtyard to look down on us. I was not unhappy that I did not have to face her. What would I say to a sister who had plotted and conspired to reduce me to nothing so that she could take all? But there was his
Grace of Clarence, standing on the top step, surveying his courtyard as if in command of a victorious army. How I detested him, his arrogant assurance, his certainty that he could still prevent me from leaving. No apology, no sense of shame, I despised him to the depth of my heart.

Richard barely acknowledged him beyond a curt inclination of his head. I supposed they had said all that was to be said. But in a sense it gave me satisfaction to see Clarence’s anger at what had transpired.

‘Gloucester! She’ll not leave without my permission! And I don’t give it!’

Beyond care, beyond watching his words, he addressed us as if we were alone and private, not distressingly public with the whole force at our back with ears and eyes straining to enjoy the airing of the dirty linen of the nobility. Hot emotion coated him from head to foot, a determination to be obeyed. He could barely stand still, an uncomfortable comparison with his brother who remained impervious through it all. Gloucester’s anger had turned to ice, and the more deadly for it. I felt it all but vibrate through him as he kept his hand on mine. Only a muscle flexed along his jaw—the only sign of temper. I could face Clarence without fear, knowing that nothing would persuade Richard to let me go now, even when Clarence strode from his position and seized Richard’s bridle from the squire.

‘You’ll not leave with her,’ he repeated, teeth clenched.

‘You’ll not stop me. We leave together.’

Hackles raised, two fighting cocks squaring off. Brothers by birth, but so dissimilar in looks and temperament, the air positively crackled between them.