Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

I waited, impatiently.

      ‘Well? What do you think of the plans for our future?’ Richard asked at last, continuing to rest his arms against the stone parapet as he looked sideways at me. At that moment he seemed impressively adult. Still not tall, but taller than I, his eyes were uncomfortably direct. His forthright question made me feel foolishly young and ignorant of the ways of the world in making and breaking alliances. What would this stern young man have to say to me, a barely grown girl?

      ‘I think…’ I didn’t know how to reply to him. Only that I needed to know what he thought. It should not have been so very important. Girls of my status were so often married to men whom they had never met. But this was Richard, who had lived under the same roof for four years, who had competed with me at archery and, I suspected, allowed me to win. Who had ridden with me when I had gone hawking for the first time. Had let me hold his goshawk on my wrist and did not laugh or mock when I first flinched from her fierce beak and beating wings. This was Richard who had given me a little metal bird. What did he think? Would he hate to be married to me?

      Seeing me, for once, speechless, he grasped the fur border of my cloak and pulled me to sit on the top step of the stair that led back down to the courtyard, out of the sharp breeze.

      ‘Stuck for words? Remarkable!’

      I kicked him on the ankle and he laughed. That was better. I felt my nerves relax in my throat. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

      ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I don’t find the idea objectionable. Do you?’

      I thought. ‘No. Just strange.’

      ‘Marriage to a changeling, as you once so unkindly pointed out.’ But his smile was soft, kind. I blushed at the cruel memory. ‘It will be some years yet,’ he added, perhaps mistaking my pink cheeks for apprehension. ‘You’re only eleven—too young to be a bride.’

      ‘But I think you’ll leave soon.’ It saddened me.

      ‘Next year. When I am of age. I hope that Edward summons me to Court.’

      ‘So then I shall not see you for years.’

      ‘No. Not for a little time. But when you have grown up, when we are wed, we’ll live together.’

      ‘Yes. Will you like it?’ I slid a glance, hoping I did not see dismay.

      ‘I expect I shall. Especially if you stop asking questions.’

      ‘I could.’ It suddenly mattered desperately that he should like it.

      Richard put his arm around my shoulders, a warm hug. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t beat you.’

      ‘I should think not! I am a Neville.’ My sense of dignity returned rapidly. ‘And I promise I won’t tease you.’

      A sharp voice carried up from below, aimed in our direction. I could not hear the words, but knew its owner. Master Ellerby had come to discover the whereabouts of his absent pupil. Lady Masham, I suspected, would be on the look-out for me.

      ‘I am needed,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve neglected my duties in the stables too long. My betrothal means nothing to the horses I must groom!’ He stood and pulled me up, brushed a hand down my dustspeckled skirts. I still did not know what to say to him at this moment of parting. Somehow our relationship had changed in that one pronouncement from my father. He was still Richard. Still an intriguing mix of cousin and brother, of henchman and royal guest in our house. And yet he was now so much more.

      I think he saw my perplexity and demanded nothing from me as he set off down the steps in front of me, then stopped so quickly that I almost fell over his heels. He bent and picked up a tail feather from one of the cockerels in a moult. What it was doing on the battlements I do not know—I found my thoughts incongruously taken up with the thing of such little importance in comparison with the plans for my future. The feather was green and black, long and shining still, iridescent in the dim light.

      ‘I have given you a bird. And now a feather. As a promise of my regard.’ With a flamboyant gesture he reached up and stuck it in through the fillet that held my veil, so that it drooped ridiculously over my brow. Then with a chivalry he never showed to me unless it were a formal occasion in adult company, he took my cold fingers and kissed them.

      ‘Good day to you, Lady Anne Neville.’

      I can still remember, all these years after, the brush of his lips against my skin on those cold battlements, the complex weave of my feelings for him.

      Overnight my sister Isabel became impossible. She summoned Margery to help her dress with an arrogant gesture of her hand as if she were Queen Elizabeth herself. Looking down her narrow nose, she informed Lady Masham, always a colourless lady, that the days of her lessons were at an end—until the Countess heard and took a hand. The royal demeanour slipped somewhat when the Duchess-apparent was once more compelled to read the text of the day and practise her sewing of neat seams.

      Yet, when we were alone, still she was unquenchable.

      ‘Duchess of Clarence.’ She spun in a circle, her silk skirts brushing against the tapestries that decorated the walls in the corridor where we walked. ‘A royal brother for my husband. Wife of the male heir to the throne of England. Would you have believed it? I could be Queen of England. I could almost pray God that the Woodville woman only carries girls and not the son King Edward longs for. Am I, a Neville, not more worthy to rule than she?’

      ‘Isabel!’ Her vicious condemnation of the Queen shocked me.

      ‘What?’ She tossed her head so that her veiling shimmered in the light. ‘No one likes her. Why should I wish her well?’

      I could not argue against it, so did not. ‘But would you wish to be Queen?’

      ‘I would!’

      There was no talking to her. She looked at me as if I were the least of her subjects, as if she might insist that I kneel before her in reverence, as the Queen did at her churching after the birth of her daughters. I escaped before it crossed her mind.

      I knew which royal brother I preferred.

      Well, it did not last. My good fortune was of short duration, my betrothal and Isabel’s being cancelled as quickly as they had been implemented. Hardly had I become used to the prospect of being a Plantagenet bride than Richard was peremptorily summoned to London to present himself at Court before his brother, King Edward. The brief dictate contained no indication of its purpose. Nor did Chester Herald who delivered it, gloriously apparelled in his Plantagenet tabard. He waited, impatient and dust smeared, to escort his young charge back to Westminster with no explanation. Or if he knew, he was not saying.

      I existed in those following days in an uneasy agony of uncertainty. My first concern—would Richard ever return to Middleham? It was generally understood that he would take his place at Court eventually when he came of age, at least a year into the future. But would Edward demand his presence early? Never had the hills around Middleham when I rode out with Isabel and Francis seemed so empty, so lacking in colour and excitement.

      ‘When do you think he will return?’ I asked Francis once again.

      ‘Don’t ask me. You keep asking me and I know no more than you.’

      ‘Will the King have heard of the proposed marriages?’

      ‘If he hasn’t, he must be a fool. And a fool Edward is not! Our King has a network of spies second to none.’ Francis stared thoughtfully between his horse’s ears. ‘Apart from that, what in God’s name was the point in the Earl swearing Clarence to secrecy? That man has no knowledge of self-control or discretion. D’you think the Earl wanted the King to discover—to save time telling him?’

      I thought about this as the sharp breeze whipped my pony’s mane and my veiling into a thorough tangle. ‘Will the King allow it, d’you suppose, or will he forbid