Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

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      Treason! ‘Would he not even consider throwing in his lot with Clarence? With my father? For the good of the realm, if such a move will restore it to peace?’

      ‘Never! He will not.’

      ‘And what of your loyalties, Francis?’ We could fence around this for hours. I decided the more direct approach, at the cost perhaps of hurting him, was my only choice.

      ‘As the ward of the Earl, my allegiance is to him,’ he replied as if he had learned the words by rote, but with his heart not in them. I could almost see his hackles rise and his eyes bored into mine. ‘What do you imply, lady?’

      ‘I would never question your loyalty, Francis,’ I replied gently. ‘Forgive me…But, Francis! Honest, now! You are the Earl’s man—but have you never thought of going over to Richard?’

      His answering smile so faint as to be non-existent, shadows in his face. ‘You were never one to mince words! I’m trying to compromise here, within the shades of loyalty.’ He sighed. ‘My whole life seems to be one of compromise!’

      ‘Is it difficult? Is it possible to do so?’ Would I ever be able to compromise if it were asked of me, to put my heart before my upbringing and sense of duty? I didn’t know. I thought it would be an impossible decision to make.

      ‘Difficult! Ha! I detest it! Anne…I hope you never have to make such choices.’

      How terrible this choice was for him. His inclination based on deep and lasting friendship was to stand at Richard’s side. On the other side of the coin, the bonds of warmth and compassion, of family, created in our household where he had been raised remained firm.

      ‘I might be wary of the Earl’s policies, but as his ward I owe him fealty—and I have much affection for the Countess.’ He groaned. ‘My heart tells me to be Richard’s man.’ Francis rubbed his hands hard over his face as if he could erase the conflict, but merely left a smudge of dust of his cheek.

      Now I understood for the first time the strain of being pulled apart by conflicting fidelities, when family warred with other commitments. How to choose? How to decide? I too was torn, but I had no choice. I was a Neville, and too young to take a stand against my family. I could only mourn Richard’s absence and loss. But Francis could make his own choice, and the result could be nothing but painful. No wonder he looked strained and weary.

      ‘Is he well?’ I demanded. ‘Richard?’

      ‘Yes.’ He blinked as if drawn back from some distant and painful place. ‘And there! I thought you did not care what became of him!’ For a little while the teasing lad had reappeared, and I was glad. I rubbed at the smear with the edge of my sleeve. ‘You were as cold as a January pond when he left Middleham! Enough to freeze the lot of us. And don’t deny it!’

      I slid a quizzical glance. ‘Well…I thought…I thought he had no…affection for me…’

      ‘Silly girl! If kissing kitchen wenches is all the problem—’

      ‘So he did know!’

      ‘He guessed. The kiss wasn’t important.’

      ‘He kissed her more than once. I saw him!’ I didn’t know whether to be angry at Richard or relieved at Francis’s casual rejection of the matter.

      ‘Well, he could hardly kiss you in the stable yard, could he? Lady Anne Neville, Warwick’s heiress? It would not have been appropriate.’

      ‘Maude was very pretty!’ I pointed out.

      ‘True.’ Francis grinned, much like his old self. ‘I kissed her myself. It doesn’t mean anything.’

      ‘I wrote to him,’ I confessed gruffly, fishing inexpertly for information.

      ‘I know. He told me. He got the letter.’

      ‘Oh.’ I thought about this, coming to no conclusion. ‘He didn’t reply.’

      Francis shrugged. ‘Of that I know nothing. But Richard told me, if I was to see you here, to tell you this. Now—’ he took hold of my hands and repeated the words, carefully learned ‘—thank you for the prayers. I am safe. I trust we can meet in London eventually. I have kissed no serving girls recently. There is nothing for me to forgive. There!”

      ‘Is that all? Say it again.’

      And he did, and I memorised it.

      ‘Isn’t it enough?’ he added as I frowned over the words. ‘I had to learn it by heart!’

      Conscious of a warmth within my chest that Richard should even think of me in his present circumstances, I squeezed Francis’s hands in quick gratitude. ‘What will happen now, Francis?’

      ‘Now I return to Middleham. I do the Earl of Warwick’s bidding.’ His reply held firm with conviction as if he had made a pact with himself. ‘The rebellion in Henry’s name must be put down by one means or another.’ He was already on his feet.

      ‘And then?’ I stood with him, trying to brush the dust from my skirts.

      ‘Then? Well, the Earl cannot keep Edward in prison for ever.’

      ‘Would…would he kill him?’A terrible cold lodged in my chest to replace the warmth, as we sank deeper and deeper into waters that would surely drown us.

      ‘No! Of course he won’t do that. That’s never his plan. Don’t even suggest it. There’s enough rumour that the Earl might not cavil at the King’s blood on his hands.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.’ I walked at his shoulder to where the escort waited, his words on loyalty and birth tumbling over each other in my mind. ‘All we can do is to remain here until it’s over. One way or another.’

      Francis must have seen my despair. ‘Don’t give up hope, Anne. Perhaps it can be put right and relations mended. Despite everything, there’s still a strong bond between Warwick and the King. If the wounds can be healed and Edward released, you’ll return to London and will see Richard again. And, I suggest—’ a wry little smile tugged at his mouth ‘—that you show him that you have grown up at last and bear no grudges!’

      I could not smile at the heavy levity, but turned my face away as I stroked a hand down the shoulder of his horse. ‘My father is a traitor, and therefore, by association, so am I. What matter that I have grown up? I have no hope at all.’

      

       King Edward is free! The King has escaped! He is marching to London.

      The words were on the lips of every traveller, every merchant and common peddler who came past. I remember standing with the Countess in the shadow of the barbican at Warwick, listening, asking. Terrified. Dreading the next bout of news.

       Warwick is dead. Warwick is captured. Warwick is in hiding.

      We heard none of this, thank God, only: Warwick is at Middleham.

      Had I thought that the world was turned on its head, with the King a prisoner at my father’s hands? That was СКАЧАТЬ