Virgin Widow. Anne O'Brien
and not merely in the tally of months since that unsatisfactory encounter. I lifted my chin. I would prove my worth as a Neville daughter. I would apply my own new-found female skills. The long months at Calais and Warwick had been well spent by me.
Edward was formally introducing him, explaining…
‘I have given sovereignty in Wales to my brother of Gloucester.’ Edward’s smile grew even more bland as Clarence stiffened on an indrawn breath. ‘Gloucester is also Constable of England, pre-eminent in power only to myself.’
I slid a glance, full of admiration. I could never have anticipated his new status. Constable of England, in ultimate control of the security of the realm. No wonder Richard had the stamp of authority, a cool dignity that kept others at a distance. He had always been solemn, but I had always been able to burrow into his thoughts, beneath his skin, under his composure. I seemed to have lost that ability, seeing only the inscrutable mask he chose to wear. Was he, unlike the King, unwilling to forgive our bloody sins? Would he reject me far more forcefully than I had rejected him at Middleham? His present polite words, carefully chosen and reserved, gave me, to my irritation, no hint at all.
When politics claimed the general discussion, Richard turned, at last, to me. He bowed. I swept the floor with my skirts.
‘Lady Anne.’
‘Your Grace.’
Richard extended his hand to raise me to my feet, which I did with smooth poise, placing my fingers, lightly like thistledown, in his. And I remembered before everything Francis’s parting advice. I would show the Constable of England that I was no longer given to petulance or foolish embarrassments. I was gracious and dignified.
‘I would thank you for the message, your Grace.’ I lowered my lashes, my voice, I hoped, demurely soft. ‘Francis repeated it perfectly.’
‘As I valued your letter,’ he replied, without inflection.
‘I rejoice in your new office, your Grace. At your high standing with the King.’
‘My brother has been more than generous.’
And why are you being so obtuse? ‘I must apologise for the manner of our parting, sir.’ I smiled, just a little. Tilted my head, interestingly. ‘I hope we can become reacquainted whilst I am at Court.’ Now I tried a direct stare, catching those dark eyes looking at me with some unreadable intent. Curved my lips, just so. Promising much, but committing to nothing.
‘I too hope that we shall find the opportunity, lady.’
And why are you being so terrifyingly formal? Richard’s brows rose infinitesimally. I was no longer sure about the straight stare, or the sharp appraisal that he made no attempt to hide. By the Virgin, Richard! What shall I say next, to spur some impulsive observation from you?
I did not need to. The interruption to our stilted reconciliation came, as shattering as a blast from one of Edward’s new cannon, to spin my thoughts into a breathless whirl.
‘…so I have given it some lengthy thought, Warwick. The betrothal of your daughter Anne.’ My head whipped round with less than elegance. ‘I might reconsider a betrothal between your daughter and Gloucester…’
But I did not hear the Earl’s expressions of gratitude nor see the ingenuous curve to Edward’s mouth. I was hardly aware of any of my surroundings, except Richard, once more placed firmly at the centre of my world. For a brief moment I thought he looked as startled as I. Then once more the composure was hammered back in place.
‘It will give me the greatest of pleasure.’ He inclined his head in a little acknowledgement. Which he might well say if invited to sample a bowl of thick pottage on a winter’s day! What was he thinking? I had no idea.
‘Well?’ whispered Isabel when she could.
‘I don’t know. He was as lost for words as I. At least he did not spurn me as the daughter of the enemy.’
‘No…’ Isabel sounded entirely unconvinced. ‘But that might be because Edward demanded his acquiescence. How can you know his true feelings? How can you ever know?’
‘Do you see what he’s doing?’ the Earl demanded. ‘Every man at Court must see what he’s about—and probably rejoice in it. The mighty being brought low!’ Behind the closed doors of Warwick Inn, he exploded in fury, face white, eyes burning. All the pent-up emotion of that long evening erupting to bring me back to earth from the bright cloud on which I had floated since the astonishing proposal.
‘He’s isolating us,’ Clarence snarled, much as he had snarled since he had bowed himself out of his brother’s presence. ‘Handing out gifts and preferment to every grasping family who will lick his boots and promise fealty. But not to me! Not to his own brother! Gloucester made Constable of England over me…’
Despite her own misgivings, the Countess tried for peace in her household. ‘I see what Edward has not done. If not for his mercy, we might have been settling into the dubious hospitality of the Tower. With an axe hanging over our necks.’
‘So we are forgiven!’ acknowledged the Earl. ‘How generous of him!’
‘You are as powerful as you have ever been,’ the Countess countered. ‘Edward has not robbed you of any of your power or your lands.’
‘He’s walling us in on all sides with families who would glory in our downfall. Stone upon stone he’s building, until our Neville heads will not show above the parapet. The Percies in the north. Gloucester and the Herberts in Wales. The Staffords in the Midlands. Even my brother of Northumberland is rewarded above me. Now Northumberland no longer, but Marquis Montague!’ My father almost spat the words. ‘A Marquis, forsooth! To take precedence over me! Preferment to all but the Earl of Warwick. All we have, as you so aptly remarked, is our necks.’
‘For which we should be grateful. And Richard promised for Anne. Is that not what you wanted? Both our daughters to tie the knot with Plantagenet tight.’
The Earl shook his head. ‘I see the mailed fist within the velvet gauntlet. I’m not persuaded of Edward’s good faith, however fair his manner. I think he would lull us, rob us of potential allies, and then grasp the first opportunity for revenge.’
But I could find no fault. I could see nothing but pleasure. Richard was to be mine at last, with the blessing of the King. I knew it was only because I was useful to tie the Nevilles to the crown, to soothe my father’s thwarted ambitions. I could accept that because a political marriage had always been my destiny, just as for my mother. But nothing could quench my spirits, that little bubble of satisfaction. I wanted this marriage and I wanted more than a political alliance with Richard of Gloucester.
I had come to the decision as he had assured me of his great pleasure. That was not enough. I wanted his heart as well as his hand. It was not enough that he should wed me because his brother ordered him to do so. If I loved him, I would have his reciprocation. I set out to woo Richard Plantagenet, whether he liked it or not.
I applied myself to a campaign of pursue and retreat in those weeks at Court with commendable vigour. I knew I must be patient—difficult, but necessary—to attract, catch his wayward regard, and then withdraw into a chilly distance. Entice him from his chivalric manners and see if I could entrap him. I determined to coax or shock or lure him, whichever would best work, from this newly acquired and impeccably polished self-possession.
Surely it could not be so difficult?
But perhaps it could. Perhaps I had a battle on my hands. I understood his conflicting emotions, and was not without compassion, but I had not liked what I had heard. A seed of dismay had effectively been sown when I heard the stark condemnation fall from Richard’s lips.
‘Do you not, then, wish to wed me?’ I had asked, eyes decorously downcast. How weary I was of being decorous.
‘I must, lady, if it is the King’s wish.’ He wasn’t unfriendly,