Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

come back for you,’ she informed the boy, shockingly ill mannered, and took herself off about her own concerns. But for once I lingered. Why should I do so? I had no idea but impulse made me stay. The boy did not look particularly pleased to be with us but then the newcomers rarely did. His face was pale and set but composed enough. I studied him as he lifted a bundle containing two swords, a light bow and a dagger from one of the wagons. His lips were thin, with corners tightly tucked in as if he would not say more than he had to. He had a tendency to frown. Perhaps it was his eyes that caught my imagination. They were very dark and cold. No spark of warmth lurked in their depths. Dispassionately, I decided that he looked sad.

      So I followed him up the stairs into the living apartments with all the assurance of a daughter of the house. Was I not Lady Anne Neville? I got under everyone’s feet in the doorway until at last Richard Plantagenet’s belongings were stowed away in chests and presses and he sat on the edge of the bed in the room allotted to him for his stay at Middleham.

      I took a step into the room. I looked at him. He looked at me.

      ‘This is a very fine room,’ I informed him, out to impress the newcomer, but also curious. It was one of the circular tower rooms at one of the four corners of the great central keep where we, the family, lived. The stone walls curved in a pleasing fashion whilst the windows, long and narrow in the old style, looked out over the outer courtyard towards the chapel and so allowing more light and air than in many of the rooms. It had its own garderobe in a small turret, a desirable convenience in winter weather when it was necessary for most of the household to brave the chill of the garderobe tower. The Earl’s henchmen were rarely housed so well. Even Francis Lovell, who was almost as important as I and would be a lord, was installed in a bleak little room in the northerly tower that caught a permanent blast of cold air. ‘I think this is one of the best rooms in the castle.’

      ‘Is it? To my mind it’s cold and draughty.’

      I followed his quick survey of the room. Well, it didn’t have the thick tapestries of the room that I shared with Isabel. Nor were the walls plastered and painted with fanciful flowers and birds as in the Countess’s own bedchamber. The floor was of polished oak boards rather than the fashionable painted tiles that had been laid in Warwick Castle. I frowned as I picked up what this boy might think was lacking. But the wooden bedstead was canopied and hung with silk drapes that must surely please, with a matching silk bedcover. The deep green shimmered as a dart of sunshine lanced across it. There was a chest and a press for garments. There was even a whole handful of wax candles in a tall iron candle-stand that could not be sneered at by anyone who wished to read…What more did he want?

      ‘And where have you come from?’ I hoped my brows rose in a semblance of the Countess at her most superior. How dared he sit in judgement on my home when his own was probably little more than a crude keep and bailey, with no improvements since its construction under William the Norman!

      ‘Fotheringhay. My father had a new wing built with wall fireplaces and lower ceilings.’ He cast another uncharitable eye around his accommodation.

      ‘This castle,’ I stated, voice rising, ‘is one of the largest in the country.’

      ‘That does not make it the most comfortable. Or where I would wish to be.’ He looked at me as if I were an annoying wasp. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

      ‘I am Lady Anne Neville,’ with all the presumption of indulged youth. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Richard Plantagenet.’

      ‘Oh.’ I was no wiser, although the name Plantagenet was a royal one. ‘My father is the Earl of Warwick.’

      ‘I know. The Earl is my cousin, so we are cousins once removed, I suppose.’ He did not seem delighted at the prospect.

      ‘Who is your father?’ I asked.

      ‘The Duke of York. He is dead.’

      I ignored the shortness of the reply, homing in on the information. Now I knew. ‘So your brother is King Edward.’ That put the newcomer into quite a different category in my mind.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How old are you?’ I continued my nosy catechism. ‘You don’t look old enough to begin your training as a knight. I am more than eight.’

      ‘I am twelve years old. I am already a Knight of the Garter.’

      ‘Only because your brother is King!’

      He shrugged as he bent to pat a hound that had wandered in, clearly not prepared to offer any more conversation.

      ‘I too am very important,’ I informed him. I had no dignity.

      ‘You are a girl. And still a child.’

      Which put me entirely in my place. I turned on my heel and stomped from the room, leaving him to make his own way or wait for Isabel’s tender mercies. I think it was Francis Lovell who eventually took pity on him and took him to my mother’s chamber. I was not there. Lady Masham had run me to ground in her fussy manner and scolded me for absenting myself from my lessons.

      I was not satisfied with my brief acquaintance.

      Richard Plantagenet continued to say little, but took to his studies well enough. He intrigued me. His confidence. His quiet, self-contained competence. I began to haunt the exercise yard and the lists when I could where he practised the knightly drills. And I was right. He suffered. He did not have the stature or strength of muscle to hold his own against Francis, who was often pitted against him. Richard spent a lot of time sprawled in the dust and dirt. But he did not give in. And I had to admire his courage, his determination to scrape himself up from the floor. Quick and alert, he soon learned that he could make up in guile and speed for what he lacked in size and weight. He could ride a horse as if born in the saddle.

      But still he was often on the floor with a bloody nose and dust plastered over his face. After a particularly robust session with sword and shield, Master Ellerby sent him to sit on the bench as the side of the exercise yard. Still dazed, Richard Plantagenet rubbed his face and nose on his sleeve. I crept along by the wall and sat on the bench with him. An opportunity too good to miss, to find out more whilst his guard was down. What did I want to know? Anything, really. Anything to explain this solemn youth who sat quietly at meals, who carved the roast beef with stern concentration, who watched and absorbed and said little.

      ‘Are you content here?’ I asked for want of anything more interesting to say.

      He snorted, pushing his hair from his eyes. ‘Better when my head is not ringing from the Master’s gentle blows! I swear Edward did not intend me to be knocked senseless when he sent me here.’

      ‘You said you did not want to be here.’ The implied criticism of Middleham still rankled. ‘Where would you rather be, that’s better than here?’

      ‘With my brother. In London. That’s where I shall go when I am finished here.’

      ‘Do you miss your family?’

      He thought for a moment. ‘Not much.’

      ‘Do you have brothers other than the King? Sisters?’

      ‘Yes. Ten.’

      ‘Ten?’ Shock made me turn to face him. ‘I only have Isabel. That’s enough.’

      ‘But some are dead, and all are older than I. George of Clarence is the one I know best.’

      ‘You are the Duke of Gloucester.’ I had acquired some knowledge since our exchange of views. ‘Your father was attainted traitor when he fought against the Lancastrian upstart Henry, the last king.’

      ‘Yes.’ Richard bared his teeth. ‘And he died for it on the battlefield at Wakefield. And my brother Edmund with him. Margaret of Anjou, Queen Margaret, had my father’s head cut from his body and put on a spike above Micklegate Bar in York. A despicable end for a brave man.’

      It was the longest speech I had heard him make. He