Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien

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, even though the King did not come?’ I asked.

      ‘He is.’ My childish query made my father laugh. ‘We’ll forget Edward and celebrate with your uncle, for his and our own promotion. It’s a proud day, after all.’

      Yet the incident of the empty thrones had cast a cloud over the whole ceremony and again over the sumptuous feast where we continued to celebrate, when it was necessary for the chairs set for the King and Queen to be shuffled quickly away and the seating rearranged. The music and singing, the magnificent banquet, the noisy conversations of the Nevilles and their dependents neatly covered over any lack in the occasion, but it remained there, an unease, as unpleasant as a grub in the heart of an apricot. I did not understand, but I remembered the harsh reaction to the name of Woodville.

      I cornered Richard before he could make his escape that night. He still had a bleak expression, but that had never stopped me. ‘Why was my father so angry?’

      ‘You must ask him.’

      ‘You think the Earl would tell me?’ I was of an age to resent being kept in the dark. ‘I’m asking you.’ Sympathy at the dark emotion in his eyes moved my inquisitive heart. ‘Tell me about Elizabeth Woodville.’

      It was as if I had touched a nerve and his reply was without control. ‘My brother should never have married her. My mother hates her. I hate her too.’

      Without further words or any courtesy he turned his back and leapt up the stairs two at a time. He kept his distance and his silence on the matter for the rest of the visit, whilst I was left to consider the strains that could tear a family apart so, where ambition and personal hatreds could replace compassion and affection that were at the heart of my own experience. I would hate it too if my family was as wrenched apart as Richard’s.

      My childhood passed in an even seam with Richard a constant. Our paths crossed as those in an extended family must. At prayers in our chapel. At dinner in the Great Hall and the supper at the end of the day. Through the rains and snows of winter, the days that beckoned us outside in summer. But nothing of note happened between us. His time was demanded by the Master of Henchmen, mine by Lady Masham and the Countess.

      As I grew I spied on Richard less often. Perhaps I was more self-conscious of my status in the household. Neville heiresses did not skulk and spy as a child might. But I knew that he learned to wield a sword with skill, that his talent with a light bow was praiseworthy, that he could couch a lance in the tilting yard to hit the quintain foursquare and ride to safety and not be thwacked for carelessness between the shoulder blades or on the side of the head by the revolving bag of sand. He was spread-eagled in the dirt less often.

      I applied myself to my lessons. It was the Countess’s wish that her daughters learn to read and write as any cultured family would, and so we did. Mastering the skill, I read the tales of King Arthur and his knights with sighing pleasure. I wept over the doomed lovers Tristram and Isolde. Sir Lancelot of the Lake and his forbidden love for Guinevere warmed my romantic heart. The painted illustration in the precious book showed Guinevere to have long golden hair, too much like Isabel for my taste. And Lancelot was tall and broad with golden hair to his shoulders as he stood in heroic pose with sword in hand and a smile for his lady. Nothing like Richard, who would never be fair and broad and scowled more often than he smiled. But I could dream and I did.

      I recall little in detail of all those days, until the momentous day of the marriage proposal, except for the Twelfth Night celebrations. After the processions, the festive feast with the boar’s head and the outrageous pranks of the Lord of Misrule, we exchanged gifts. I still have the one that Richard gave me. It has travelled with me into exile, into un-numbered dangers from imminent battle, and finally into captivity. I have never seen its like and would be dismayed if it were ever lost to me. Richard must have bought it from a travelling peddler when he had visited York. On its presentation I tore impatiently at the leather wrapping.

      ‘Oh! Oh, Richard!’

      I laughed at the childish whimsy of it. Not of any intrinsic value, yet it was cunningly contrived of metal, a little hollow bird that would sit in the palm of my hand, plump and charming, its beak agape like a fledgling, its feathers well marked on the tiny wings that were arched on its back. When I moved the little lever on the side, the bird’s tongue waggled back and forth. When I blew across the hollow tail, it emitted a warbling whistle. I practised to everyone’s amusement.

      ‘Richard. Thank you.’ I was lost for words, but I made the appropriate curtsy, lifting my new damask skirts and much prized silken underskirt with some semblance of elegance.

      He flushed. Bowed in reply with more flamboyance than I had previously seen. Kissed my fingers as if I were a great lady. His lessons in chivalry had gone on apace.

      ‘It is my pleasure. The little bird is charming, as are you, Cousin Anne.’

      When he drew me to my full height and kissed my cheeks, one and then the other, and then my lips in cousinly greeting, I felt hot and cold at the same time, my face flushed with bright colour. Francis Lovell’s friendly salutes never had that effect on me.

      I think it was then, with the imprint of Richard’s kiss on my astonished lips, that I determined, with true Neville arrogance, that I would have him as my own. No other girl would have him, I swore silently with one of the Earl’s more colourful oaths. Richard, I wager, felt no such significance in his gift from me. He was more taken up with the horse-harness the Earl had given him, an outrageously flamboyant affair, all polished leather with enamel and gilded fittings.

      And what did I give to Richard Plantagenet? What would I, a ten-year-old girl, give to a prince who had everything, whose brother was King of England? With many doubts and some maternal advice I plied a needle. My mother said it would be good practice and Richard would be too kind to refuse my offering, however it turned out. I scowled at the implication, but stitched industriously. I stitched through the autumn months when the days grew short and I had to squint in candlelight to make for him an undershirt in fine linen, to fit under a light metal-and-velvet brigandine that was a present from his brother and his favourite garment. A mundane choice of gift from me, but I turned it into an object of fantasy by embroidering Richard’s heraldic motifs on the breast in silk thread and a few leftover strands of gold. A white rose for the house of York. The Sun in Splendour that his brother had adopted for the Yorkist emblem after the battle of Mortimer’s Cross when the miracle of the three suns appeared together in the heavens. And for Richard himself, his own device of a white boar. I was