Chapter 12

Anne

Ravensworth, 1475

By the time that I was fifteen I was wanting my own household to govern and space to grow and spread my wings. My mother’s matchmaking had proved most successful in the past few years and two of my sisters were wed and were already mothers; Elizabeth, who married William Parr, had named her first daughter for me and I stood as godmother to her. Anne Parr was a beautiful child, placid and happy. When she first closed her tiny fingers around mine, I felt a sweetness flower within me that I had never experienced before, an ache that was both joyful and poignant in the same moment. Yet, I also felt left behind. I had been married for far longer than my siblings yet somehow it was as though everyone had forgotten I was Lady Lovell.

Francis remained with the Duke of Suffolk in those fallow years that I spent at Ravensworth. Frideswide wrote that he was starting to familiarise himself with his estates, the vast parcels of land that he possessed across the length and breadth of the country. Yet he too was still in his minority and the King seemed happy for that to be the case, for he was using the income from Francis’ inheritance to pay his own debts. Frideswide wrote of Francis’ fury that Edward had assigned the income from their grandmother’s lands to his wine merchant.

Francis resents paying off the entire court’s drinking bills, she wrote. Yet his loyalty will never falter. He is to accompany the King to France, being eager to prove himself on campaign.

This news troubled me. Not so much the King’s extravagance at Francis’ expense but the thought that he was going away to fight and that I might be widowed before I was a wife.

‘It is the way of men,’ mother said, as we sat that night in the solar, the firelight playing across the stone floor and leaping up the arras to illuminate the scenes of hunting and hawking in blood red and black. ‘If there is not a war to fight, they will provoke one.’

I looked at her sitting there placidly and incongruously with her needlework. If she had been a man, she would have been first in the field.

‘Why the King needs to invade France is a mystery to me,’ I said. The chess board was laid out in front of me but I had no one to play against so I was pitting the pieces against one another. ‘Surely he had enough with which to occupy himself in his own kingdom?’

Mother sighed. ‘The King has a claim to the French throne as well as that of England,’ she said. ‘It is important that he should assert it.’

‘Important for whom?’ I asked.

‘I do not know why you are forever questioning,’ mother said, with a snap. ‘It does no good.’

‘I am curious, that is all,’ I said. ‘You want me to have the Neville ambition. It does not come without understanding.’

Mother laid aside the needlepoint. Her embroidery, unlike mine, was very fine.

‘Men will always be looking to aggrandisement,’ she said. She beckoned to one of the maids to pour her a cup of wine from the pitcher and one for me as well. This was unusual and an honour that had only come in the last few months since my fifteenth birthday.

‘Your Francis, for example,’ she said. ‘I hear he has already been engaged in more lawsuits than a man can count in order to secure his lands and he is not yet of age.’

‘That is different,’ I argued hotly. ‘It is only because the terms of his inheritance are so complicated. To him it is a matter of law and honour that he should pursue them.’

‘Men speak of law and honour and all manner of high-flown virtue when it suits their purpose,’ mother said with a cynicism I had not heard from her before. ‘You would do well to hear it, note it and judge by their actions not their words.’

I filed that piece of advice away for future reference and watched as she refilled her cup and drank again. It was unusual to see her like this; there was some discontent in her this night that I did not understand.

‘So, if men seek out conflict,’ I said, ‘what do women do?’

She gave me a sour smile. ‘They marry and beget children,’ she said. ‘And when they are too old to do that, they are forgotten.’

I wondered whether that was what ailed her. Mother was over forty years old by now and had been widowed for four. She was still a handsome woman yet the King had not suggested she remarry and it seemed no one had sought her hand. This, I thought, might well have been because of her cursed Neville temper, which was well known. I was not sure any man might find the bargain worthwhile, but I had the sense not to say this.

I also wondered whether the sight of all her children marrying and the arrival of the first grandchildren, far from pleasing her, had actually embittered my mother and made her feel the passing of the years. Like Francis, my brothers had gone to train in other households after father had died and now my elder brother Richard would soon take up the governance of Ravensworth.

‘Women can have power in other ways,’ I said. ‘There is the church, and—’

Her laughter cut across my words. She raised the cup in salute. ‘Can you see me as a nun, Anne?’

I went across to her and knelt down beside her. ‘There is the court,’ I said. ‘You enjoyed our time at Westminster.’

Her mouth turned down at the corners. Down went the cup with a snap that made the delicate gold quiver and bend. ‘My services are not required there,’ she said. ‘The Queen has no need for me.’

I understood then that she had asked and been rebuffed. Edward, for all his talk of kinship and reconciliation had not wanted the meddling widow of a traitor in the heart of the court. The Queen certainly had no reason to like mother either. Her star had fallen, her time was gone.

‘That may change,’ I said, trying to comfort her. ‘The wheel of fortune always turns.’

‘That is superstition,’ she grumbled, sliding down in her chair, ‘or if not that, then it is treason.’

I shrugged, getting up from her side, irritated that she had rebuffed my attempts to offer solace. I thought she was sorry for herself, or in her cups, or both.

‘You should pray for Francis,’ she said suddenly, her fingers flicking impatiently through the little book of illuminated manuscripts on the table at her side. I loved that book. It had been created for my grandfather at Rievaulx Abbey, and the pictures of the lay brothers labouring in the fields and the monks at their prayers were delicate and jewel-bright in their colouring. It was a far cry from the energy and violence of the hunting tapestries.

‘I will,’ I said. ‘I do.’

‘Should he die and leave you a virgin widow,’ mother said, ‘a nunnery might be the best place for you since you are so keen to extol the religious life.’

I was so shocked and hurt in that moment that I could have dashed my own wine in her face. The urge to strike back – to tell her that I was young and comely and clever, and would find another husband where she could not – was so strong. Then I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes and she held out her arms to me and I went into them. She smelled of wine and sweat and heat and a heavy perfume that could not conceal any of the other smells, and I pitied her then.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, against my hair. ‘Forgive me, Anne. I am old and sour tonight, and when the north wind blows my bones ache.’ She eased back and looked me in the eye. ‘You should know,’ she said fiercely, ‘that if you need me, I shall always be by your side. You are my daughter and I love you. Sometimes I am fearful for you, that is all. You are so curious, so questioning. I do not know why it scares me but it does.’

I put her words down to the maudlin effect of drink but I hugged her back nevertheless.

‘Don’t fear for me,’ I said. ‘I am sure I shall lead a life of tedious domesticity.’

In that moment, there was a gust of wind down the chimney and a spiral of flame leaped from the hearth and spun towards us, bright, malevolent, and at its heart, nothing but darkness through which moved formless shadows. I felt such dread then that I could not move. It weighed me down with abject terror. The fire caught the arras and started to burn. The maid was screaming and crossing herself, and the sound broke me from my stupor. I picked up the ewer of water on the table and threw it over the flames. There was a hiss and the acrid smell of burning, and then nothing but the drip of water onto the stone floor.

‘Witchcraft!’ the maid sobbed and I thought mother was going to slap her. I stepped hastily between the two of them.

‘It was nothing,’ I said. ‘A spark, no more.’

But I had seen the shadows in the flame and felt their evil. I thought of the lodestar in its velvet box, and Ginevra’s words about old magic, and I shivered.

It was September when Francis came back from the French wars. The afternoon was fair and I had been in the stables playing with the latest litter of kittens provided by Nala, the half-feral tabby whom we kept for her fearsome ability to rid the place of rats. Generally her kittens seemed to be fathered by one or other of the wildcats that roamed the hills around Ravensworth. They were sly, secretive creatures; if I ever saw one on my rides it would stare at me with its pale eyes before disappearing into the woods at the flick of a whisker. This litter had inherited the thick black banded tail of their father but with some flecks of white and fawn stripes from their mother. They were extremely pretty and at this age, still too small to do much harm with teeth and claws. Nala was not maternal in any way, having abandoned her offspring to be fed by the grooms whilst she preferred hunting. In a number of ways, she reminded me of my mother. After I had done my duty in playing with them and providing a bowl of milk, I wandered down to the lake in the late afternoon sunshine.

Here it was quiet, the bustle of the castle left behind. I saw the fowler with a brace of woodcock for supper; he touched his cap as he passed by. The plop of the fish was loud in the silence. The light spun across the water. It felt a soft and dreamy day with the heat that sometimes came as summer slid into autumn. I sat for a while on a fallen log beneath a curtain of willows and thought about very little, content only in that moment of warmth and brightness. Then a shadow fell across me, a twig snapped, and I realised that I was not alone.

A man was standing by the edge of the water, watching me. My heart jumped into my throat and I reached for my knife in the little scabbard on my belt, but in that same moment he stepped into a band of light and I recognised him.

‘There is no need to greet me at the point of a blade,’ he said. He was smiling.

‘Francis!’ I jumped up, hurrying across to him, putting both my hands into his. He looked different, I thought. It was not simply the spattering of mud on his cloak and boots that showed he had ridden hard and come to find me before he had changed his clothes. There was something else about him, something in his bearing, a new confidence perhaps.

‘How are you, Anne?’ he said. ‘They told me at the castle that I might find you here.’

‘I am well,’ I said, ‘and happy to see you.’ Pleasure burst inside me and I realised it was true. I drew him down to sit beside me. ‘I missed you,’ I said. ‘What happened? Did you fight?’

Francis shook his head. ‘King Louis had no stomach for it,’ he said. ‘He offered us parley; an alliance was brokered and then we feasted together.’

‘How very civilised,’ I proposed. ‘If only all wars were to end that way.’

Francis’ lips twitched. ‘Gloucester was furious at the treaty,’ he said. ‘He considers it dishonourable. He is right, of course, for we were paid to go away and to not cause trouble.’

‘Surely that is preferable to dying in battle,’ I said. Sitting here beside him, feeling the solid presence of him next to me, I couldn’t imagine that it was ever worth trading peace for battle no matter how it was won.

‘There may be valour in dying for a cause you believe in, I suppose,’ I said, ‘but not for the throne of France. It is not worth it, not when we already have England.’

Francis bust out laughing. ‘You are a pragmatist, like King Edward,’ he said.

And unlike his younger brother Richard, I thought to myself, Edward did indeed have his weaknesses – but he was a skilled commander and a ruthless man. More practically, he was capable of compromise, whilst there was a rigidness in Gloucester that scared me sometimes.

‘How long do you stay in Yorkshire this time?’ I asked, aware that my hand still rested in his and that it felt very sweet and right that it did so. It was so pleasant, just the two of us down by the water. I had become accustomed to seeing Francis’ time as rationed and valuing it accordingly. I hoped we would have the chance to go hawking and to ride out across the moors before winter set in.

‘I must be gone within a week,’ Francis said. ‘I came to deal with a matter at my manor at Bainton.’

I felt a thud of disappointment. I had thought he had come to see me; I tried to tug my hand from his but he held on to it.

‘And to see you, of course,’ he said, laughter lurking in his eyes.

Once again, I tried to free myself, annoyed at his teasing. Instead of letting me go, though, he pulled me closer.

‘Anne,’ he said, ‘I do but jest. You know you are by far more important to me than ought else.’

I looked up to see him looking at me. There was a darkness in his eyes I had not seen there before. He raised my hand, spreading out my fingers carefully and linking them between his own. My palm tingled. Suddenly the warm afternoon seemed hotter still, silence wrapped about the two of us, intimate and close.

‘I do not know it,’ I whispered.

‘Then you should,’ Francis said. His expression was very grave. ‘I’ve waited for you,’ he said. ‘I promised I would.’

I understood then, understood why my heart raced and I felt hot and feverish. Exhilaration sparked through me, making me catch my breath. ‘You need not wait any more,’ I said.

Francis drew me close to him, slipping an arm about my waist, and I pressed my cheek against his shoulder. I felt safe there but I could hear the beat of his heart against my palm and that felt exciting, not safe at all. His lips brushed my cheek and I looked up. His face was very close to mine, so close I could see the intense grey of his eyes and count each individual eyelash, which I did a little dreamily. I raised a hand to touch his lean cheek and recoiled with a slight gasp from the roughness of it. He caught my fingers in his free hand.

‘What is it?’ His voice had changed, grown husky.

‘I didn’t realise what it would be like to touch you,’ I said, not really making sense, except in my own head, where this world of new sensation was entirely exciting.

He smiled. ‘You’ve touched me plenty of times in the years we have known each other,’ he said.

‘Not like this,’ I whispered. ‘Only as friends.’

‘And now we are not?’ he asked.

‘Always,’ I said, ‘but now it will be different.’

‘So wise,’ Francis said. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from mine now and I could see from his eyes that he was smiling. I think I had stopped breathing entirely.

His mouth touched mine. It was odd; we had been married for ten years and yet this felt like the beginning, as though we were plighting our troth. The light blurred and faded as I closed my eyes. This was so new to me, and different from any of my imaginings. My mother had yet to instruct me on the duties of a wife, having said that there would be time enough when I was old enough to join Francis at Minster Lovell. It seemed, however, that I was old enough now and did not need her advice after all.

I dared to wrap my arms about his neck, to slide my fingers into his hair and kiss him back. He parted my lips with a gentle nudging of his own and suddenly the kiss became very different, full of hunger and tenderness at the same time. I gave myself up to the promise of it and heard Francis groan. We tumbled off the log to lie in the springy grass beneath the sweeping willows, still kissing, entangled in his cloak. Suddenly it seemed to me that he was wearing a deal too many clothes.

Perhaps it was because I had known him so long that I felt no shyness or perhaps my natural curiosity conquered all. I slid my hands beneath the smooth linen of his shirt and ran them over his back, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath his skin. He gasped and drew back, and I wondered if I had hurt him in some way, but then he brushed the hair back from my face with a hand that shook.

‘Anne,’ he said. Then: ‘I had not intended for it to be like this.’

I pressed my lips to the curve of his neck, made reckless by the knowledge that he wanted me. The skin there was soft and warm, and my heart turned over with love for him.

‘How could it be better?’ I whispered, touching his cheek, and he kissed me again and I was lost. When his hand slipped inside my gown and I felt it against my bare breast I think I would have cried out but his kiss captured the sound.

‘The first time,’ Francis said. His voice was not steady. ‘It may hurt you.’

I didn’t care. I cared for nothing but him and when he came into me and it did hurt, I still did not care. I felt nothing but desire, and awe at my own power. And afterwards I rested my head on Francis’ chest and he wrapped the cloak about us, and I was so happy that it felt as though there was the tightest of bands about my heart.

Everything will be different now, I thought. The future can begin.