Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

to go into exile for our safety. We went to the Netherlands.’ His guard was clearly down, offering so much.

      ‘Did you like it?’ I could not imagine being forced to leave England in fear of my life, being forced to beg for charity from some foreign family and be unsure that I would ever be able to return. I knew I would have hated it.

      ‘Well enough.’

      Now what? I sought for another topic to lure him into speech. It was difficult. ‘Were you called Richard after your father? I was named Anne for my mother.’

      ‘No. After your grandfather, Richard Neville, the Earl of Salisbury. He stood as my godfather at my baptism and so I was named Richard.’

      ‘Oh.’ His connection with my family was getting stronger. His nose still bled and his sleeve was well spotted with blood. I handed him a square of linen. Lady Masham would have approved, I thought.

      ‘My thanks.’ He inclined his head with a courtly little gesture, then, wincing, applied the linen with careful enthusiasm.

      ‘Where were you born?’

      ‘Fotheringhay.’

      ‘I was born here. I like it here more than any place else.’

      ‘I like it too,’ he admitted suddenly, an admission that promptly warmed me to him. ‘It reminds me of Ludlow where I spent some months when I was much younger. Before we were driven out by the Lancastrians at the point of a sword.’ There was the bitterness again.

      ‘Why were you sent here? Why here?’

      His angled look was wary as if unsure of the reason for my question. I had no ulterior motive other than basic inquisitiveness.

      ‘It was the only household of sufficient rank for my education. As King Edward’s brother…’ He seemed unaware that his shoulders had straightened. ‘My brother and your father are very close. The Earl fought for Edward, helped him get the throne. Perhaps without the Earl he never would have done it. So where other should I have been sent but here? My brother the King has paid well for my upkeep. He sent a thousand pounds.’

      I nodded as if I understood. It sounded a vast sum. We sat in silence as he tried ineffectually to brush the dirt from the front of his jacket.

      ‘Will you fight again today?’

      ‘When I’ve got my breath back. Which I suppose I have since I’ve done nothing but talk to you for the past minutes.’ He stood and flexed his muscles in his back and thighs with a groan.

      ‘Perhaps you should not?’

      ‘Do you think I cannot?’ Looking down at where I still sat, a sudden sparkle, a glow of sheer pride, burst in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘I was lucky to survive my childhood, I’m told. It was a surprise to everyone, including my mother the Duchess who got into the habit of assuring everyone in the household every morning that I was still alive.’ He grinned, showing neat even teeth. ‘I survived and I will be a prince without equal. A bout with a blunt sword will not see me off to my grave.’

      ‘No.’ It made me smile too. I believed him.

      As he would have picked up the practice sword from the bench, I found myself stretching out my hand to stop him. His eyes met mine and held, the light still there.

      ‘I’m glad you survived.’

      I was astounded at what I had said, could not understand why I had said it. I leapt to my feet and ran before he could respond, or I was discovered where I should not be.

      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