Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

unresponsive shoulders, willing him to turn and make it easy for me, but he didn’t. I took a breath. ‘I too had dark hair when I was born, and a lot of it.’

      Richard did not reply, but ran his fingers through the animal’s tangled mane, teasing out the knots.

      ‘I don’t think I had my teeth. My nurse says I cried and fretted when my gums were sore.’

      Nothing! He did not even bother to tell me to go away. Well, I would show him.

      I lifted the embroidered fillet from my head and pulled off the linen veil, dropping them both carelessly on the straw. Then unpinned my bound and braided hair without compunction, a lengthy business undertaken every morning by Bessie. Shook it out so that it lay limply against my cheeks.

      ‘See. I too look nothing like my mother or my sister.’ I shook it again to loosen the tight weaving and my hair fell long and straight, past my shoulders, as dark as his.

      ‘No, you don’t.’ At least he was looking at me again.

      ‘Perhaps we are both changelings.’

      ‘Perhaps.’ There was the slightest curve to his mouth, but still nothing that could be called a smile. ‘Sometimes you are the Devil’s own brat.’

      ‘So Margery says.’ I smiled tentatively. So did he.

      ‘Does your shoulder hurt?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes. I fell on it when I rolled from my horse. But it is not deformed!’

      I had the grace to drop my eyes. ‘I know. I only said it to wound.’

      ‘You succeeded. I thought you were my friend.’ He spoke to me as a brother to a younger sister, but still it pleased me. I was rarely admitted to such intimacy.

      ‘I am. Come with me, now. Margery has a salve that will bring out the bruise and give you some ease. She will stitch your jacket too.’

      ‘You should do it for your impertinence.’ Giving the horse a final pat, he gathered up the empty bowl and the unused bandages. ‘What will she say when she sees your hair?’ At last a true smile creased his lean cheeks.

      ‘She will be cross. So will Bessie.’ I sighed at the prospect of further punishment even as I accepted it as a price to pay to restore the closeness between us. I had learned one painful lesson. I must learn to guard my tongue. Richard might appear immune to the spurious gossip spread by adherents to Lancaster to hurt and maim, but he was not, and it would be a heartless friend who opened the wound. Richard Plantagenet had a surprising vulnerability.

      I was not heartless and I would be his friend.

      Chapter Three

      MARRIAGE began to loom interestingly on the Neville front.

      In the following year my father was absent more often than he was present. The household continued to keep its usual efficient order with the Countess at the head of affairs, but she missed him, and as I grew I sensed that something out of the way was afoot. Sometimes it was difficult for her to smile; she rarely laughed. At dinner when she sat in place of honour I could see, when I dragged my thoughts from my own concerns, that she picked at the dishes presented to her. She was pale and I think did not sleep well.

      ‘Where is he? Is my father at Calais?’ I would ask my mother. The Earl was often called upon to be there to oversee the defence of this most important possession on the coast of Europe.

      ‘No. The King has sent him to France again.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘To make an alliance between our two countries.’

      ‘Will it be good for us?’

      ‘Yes. Your father thinks so.’

      ‘Why does he not sign with France, in the King’s name? Then he could come home.’

      My mother’s brow knitted. ‘Because, my inquisitive daughter, King Edward is not in agreement. He would prefer an arrangement with Burgundy, rather than France.’

      ‘Is he arranging my betrothal?’ This was Isabel. At sixteen years Isabel was of an age or more to be wed or at least promised in a betrothal. So far no arrangement had been made, a matter that was not to her liking.

      ‘Yes. I think it is in my lord’s mind.’ A caustic reply for so celebratory an event.

      ‘Will it be a foreign lord? Will I have to live beyond the Channel?’ Isabel was relentless. For a moment, she looked doubtful at leaving home and family so far behind. Then her expression brightened again as if marriage to a foreign prince would please her mightily.

      ‘I’m not certain.’

      ‘Oh. Will Father tell me when he returns?’

      ‘He might—if his plans have progressed so far.’ The Countess’s brief smile held a wisp of dry humour. ‘Don’t worry, Isabel. I am sure it will be a match made in heaven.’

      But in spite of this amusement at Isabel’s dreaming of a handsome knight, there was some issue here. My mother’s expression became even more strained, a thin line of worry between her brows as she made an excuse of a word with the steward to leave the supper table. Isabel was too intent on her future glory as a bride, but I knew that the Countess was deliberately selective with her opinions. Or perhaps she herself was uncertain of the Earl’s intentions.

      At least she had given me some ammunition.

      ‘I thought you would be much sought after,’ I needled. ‘No one appears to be rushing to our door to claim your hand.’

      ‘I shall be sought after. You’re too young to know anything about it.’

      ‘You’ll soon be too old. Fit only for a convent.’

      ‘I shall marry one of the greatest in the land.’ She was, to my delight, crosser by the minute. ‘Do you think the Earl of Warwick will allow his heiress to go unmarried? Or to be claimed by a man who lacks importance and authority?’

      No. I did not. I thought as did Isabel that it would be of prime importance for the Earl to secure a bridegroom of comparable standing and wealth to our own. But there was an uncertainty, an unease, about the situation that I could not unravel. If at sixteen years, most heiresses were formally betrothed if not wed, why was it different for Isabel? And what if Isabel did not marry? What would happen to me as a younger daughter? Was I destined for a convent? A Bride of Christ? I shrank from the prospect, enclosing walls, a life of strict obedience and enforced poverty. I swore that was not for me. As for any prospective bridegroom for myself, I could not picture him. At eleven years I did not care greatly, but Isabel did and was decidedly ill tempered as the days and weeks passed with no remedy.

      The Earl returned at the end of the month, but after the briefest of greetings, hardly more than the briefest of smiles for Isabel and myself, a quick exchange of words with Master Ellerby, he spent the day closeted with my mother. He was wont to be an indulgent father and we were used to more of his attention, but his face bore a return to moody preoccupation and displeasure. When we were reunited before supper, when my mother’s company and a cup of Bordeaux had smoothed out the lines, I decided to risk his indulgence. I stood in front of him where he lounged in his favourite chair before the fireplace.

      ‘Did you make the treaty with France, sir?’ I asked.

      ‘I see you’ve been following diplomatic policy.’ I saw an appreciative gleam in the eyes he slid towards the Countess.

      ‘Yes. It would be a good alliance for England.’

      ‘So it would, and, yes, I have. King Louis will make a strong ally.’

      ‘What is he like?’

      ‘Uncommonly ugly and remarkably devious. He spins a web to trap and hold friends and enemies alike.’

      I