Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

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      I think it was in September of that year that I had my first experience of the painful cut and thrust of political manoeuvring. It was when our household moved to York for a week of celebration and festivity.

      It began auspiciously enough. The Earl, my father, was particularly good humoured, not a common occurrence in the months after the King’s marriage, which he viewed with tight-lipped displeasure. It seemed to circle round the King’s choice for his new Queen, Elizabeth Woodville. She was a widow from a low-born avaricious family, all of them grasping and greedy for power, and so quite unsuitable. I did not understand why being a widow should make her an unacceptable wife, since her previous husband was conveniently dead. Nor was avaricious quite within my grasp. But so it was. The marriage, I learnt, had been performed in disgraceful secrecy. I wondered why a King should need to do anything in disgraceful secrecy. Could he not simply order affairs to his own liking?

      ‘That’s exactly what he’s done,’ the Earl snarled over a platter of bread and beef. ‘He’s followed his own desires. And at what cost to this realm? He’s deliberately gone against my advice. I have to suppose I am of no further value to him, now that he has the Woodvilles ready to bow and scrape and obey every order.’ Temper sat on him like a thundercloud.

      Thus it was a relief when our visit to York lightened his mood. We were dressed and scrubbed and polished and instructed on our behaviour, to be seemly at all times. I had a new gown because at nine years I was growing fast. We walked the short distance to the great cathedral and took our seats. Important seats in the chancel because, as Isabel whispered to me as the congregation massed behind us, we were the most important family present. The choir sang. The priests processed with candles and silver cross and incense. And there at the centre of it all was Bishop George Neville, my father’s youngest brother, my uncle, splendid in the rich cope and gilded mitre of his office. Now to be enthroned as Archbishop of York. It was a magnificent honour for our family.

      Except that a heavy frown pulled the Earl’s brows into a black bar. He was not pleased. Nor his other brother, my uncle Lord John, the Earl of Northumberland. I could just see them seated together if I leaned forwards, impressive in satin and fur, in an angry, whispered conversation with each other. Their words held a sharp bite, but I was not close enough to make them out.

      ‘What is it?’ I whispered to Francis Lovell on my left side. ‘What’s wrong?’

      He nodded over to our left. ‘Empty!’ he mouthed the word silently.

      I leaned forwards to see. At the side of the chancel in pride of place were two magnificent thrones of carved and gilded wood, obviously placed there for some important personages. The only seats in the cathedral not occupied.

      ‘Who?’

      It was Richard, seated neat and resplendent in dark velvet on my other side who answered with the croak of adolescent youth, ‘My brother the King and his wife, Elizabeth Woodville. They have not come. They were expected.’

      ‘Oh!’ I saw that there was a frown on his face almost to equal my father’s. ‘Does it matter?’ I hissed sotto voce.

      Richard frowned harder. ‘Yes. I think it does.’

      We were hushed with a sharp glance from the Countess as the new Archbishop took his episcopal throne. The ceremony drew to a close and the treble voices of the choir lifted in jubilation at George Neville’s investiture. Perhaps the pride on his features too was muted as he saw the proof of absent guests. His smile gained a sour edge.

      Afterwards we gathered on the forecourt before the west door, collecting the household together before returning to our lodging.

      ‘We should have expected it, should we not!’The Earl made no attempt to lower his voice.

      My mother place a placatory hand on his arm. ‘The King himself suggested the promotion for your brother. He chose George personally and it is a great honour.’

      ‘But not to be present at his enthronement? God’s Blood! It’s a deliberate provocation. An insult to our name and my position.’

      ‘There may be a reason—’

      ‘The only reason I can think of is a personal slight against me and mine. He should have been here. You can’t persuade me that the King was not aware of how his absence would be read by those who wish us ill.’

      But who would wish us ill? I had known nothing but love and care in my nine years. The Lancastrians, of course, would have no affection for the Earl of Warwick, but they were defeated, old King Henry touched in his mind and kept fast in the Tower, his queen and son in exile, whilst King Edward held my father in high regard. So who would wish to cause us harm?

      ‘There may be other demands on his time…’ the Countess persisted.

      ‘Woodville demands. It’s that woman’s doing. She has the King wound round her manipulating fingers, as tight as any bowstring. I wager she kept him from York. Has the King no sense…?’

      ‘Hush! You’ll be overheard.’

      ‘I care not.’

      I was increasingly aware of Richard’s taut figure beside me. When I edged close, took hold of his sleeve and pulled to attract his attention, to try to discover the reason for his stark pallor, the stormy glitter of his eyes, he snatched his arm away, which movement caught the Earl’s eye; as he glowered in Richard’s direction, I thought for the briefest of moments that he would turn his anger on this youngest brother of the King. He frowned at the pair of us as if we had been discovered in some mischief, sharp words rising to his lips.

      But the Earl’s face softened as he moved towards us.

      ‘Anne.’ He touched my shoulder, a gentle clasp. Smiled at Richard, and there was no hostility there. ‘Don’t be concerned, boy. Whatever is between your brother and myself does not rest on your back. You need broader shoulders than yours yet to take on your brother’s misdemeanours. It’s not for you to worry about.’

      ‘No, sir.’ Richard dropped his eyes.

      ‘Is my uncle George still Archbishop, СКАЧАТЬ