Queen Marguerite, whom I had been raised to fear as the Devil, proved a refined beauty. What had once been a confection of gold and sugar, time had spoiled. The fine lines on her lovely, sculpted face all drew down. Her eyes were polished agate, gray and hard. Wearing a purple gown and a crown over a gold-embroidered caul, Marguerite was the most terrifyingly regal female I'd ever beheld. At Amboise, in their cathedral, filled with candles, incense and blazing windows thronged with bright saints and angels, the Earl of Warwick begged the queen's pardon upon his knees.
Pardon him for calling her beloved son a bastard. Pardon him for stealing the throne from her dear husband, King Henry. Pardon him for making war upon her and driving her and her royal child from England.
The Queen kept the Earl on his knees for twenty minutes, looking for the world as if she had changed her mind and was ready to go back on the reconciliation she'd promised King Louis. Her sixteen-year-old son, Prince Edward, was beside her, French elegance in scarlet. His chestnut head was topped by a turban with a trailing liripipe. His tunic had a pinched waist and was short and fur-trimmed, showing handsome scarlet legs to advantage. The heir of House Lancaster stood during the interview, as befitted a prince, only a step lower than the King of France. While the Earl begged forgiveness of his mother, he made a show of arranging the drooping petals of his scarlet sleeves.
Anne wore a blue dress. Her steeple head piece carried a floating butterfly veil. Her thin, white shoulders were bare. A pearl choker embraced her long neck. She kept her lovely hands folded, her eyes downcast, looking like the Virgin waiting for an angelic visitation.
Prince Edward showed his mettle by munching hazel nuts. As time passed and sweat began to drop from the brow of the kneeling Earl, the prince began a great show of studying Anne. He nudged the gentleman next to him, who responded with a wink.
When Queen Margeurite finally allowed Warwick to kiss her hand, some conversation passed between them and King Louis. As it was French, I could not follow. The great French King, Louis XI, was an ugly, squat man with the calculating narrow eyes of a rat. His clothes were none too clean—that I could see, even at a distance—and around his scrawny neck hung a heap of chains and holy medals.
Finally, Warwick and Prince Edward were introduced. The prince barely managed a nod. He went at once, talking boisterously in his own tongue, straight to Anne. First, he walked around her, like a buyer at a horse fair. Instead of prodding her with his hands, he used words to test her mettle.
Anne responded in French. She did not deign to turn as he circled her, but kept straight and steady. When Prince Edward chucked her under the chin and said something that must have been impudent, she slapped his hand away and snapped something in return which drew surprised titters from the courtiers.
"Very good." Prince Edward spoke for the first time in a heavily accented English. "I shall marry her."
The queen laughed, followed by the French King. They were immediately echoed by the assembly, a singularly hollow sound in that cold, echoing space. Marguerite and her son joined hands and stood there, facing Warwick and his daughter, four pieces on a royal board.
The Earl smiled now, but he looked uneasy. Anne held that formal pose, head up, eyes down, one foot forward, studying the hands which she had clasped just below her meager bosom.
* * *
"When I return and bring our dear father, the true king, from the Tower, there will be a reckoning. I shall head those lords of York, hang their gentlemen and put their chief towns to the sword.” The lords who surrounded the Prince of Lancaster smiled indulgently, as if listening to a poem. Around us torches flared in that dark cavern of a room. Over his head, a fabulous rose window shone blue and scarlet.
"Edward the Usurper shall die, as will all his kin and every man who resists us. The House of York shall drown in its own blood." Here stood a youth, who by his own prideful account, had ordered, and, cheerfully witnessed, his first beheadings at the age of eight.
"She’s pretty enough, for a thrice-dyed traitor's child." Today, apparently for our benefit, Edward spoke English. With utter presumption, he tilted Anne's chin and gazed into her eyes.
I saw her flush with rage, but she was determined to be her mother's well-schooled daughter. She did not object; she made no reply.
He turned her face from side to side, examining her. I had a feeling that if he'd dared, he would have looked at her teeth.
"Nice eyes." He was playing to his entourage. "But what I really want to see is your pretty red muff."
Anne pushed his hand away and regally stepped back. Her eyes blazed, the veil swirled about her shoulders.
"What I want to see is whether you know as much about war as you pretend to know about women."
I stepped between them, clasping Anne and carrying her away from him. I was ready to take the blow—or knife in the ribs—for now it was the Prince's turn to redden. He did so, mightily.
"A snapping bitch from an English kennel!" Edward shouted. "You had better prove a better breeder than your sister!" He lunged at us.
We both sank to floor and lifted our hands to ward off the momentarily expected blows. I thought we were lost, having provoked that young lunatic's rage, but, fortunately, the queen picked that moment to enter the room. Behind her came a graying, lean Welsh lord, Jasper Tudor.
"Ah, there you are, dear son," said the queen. She did not speak loudly, but everyone in the room jerked to attention.
As the prince turned, I wondered if he would tattle about Anne's slight, but he did not. At least he was enough of a man for that.
"Only playing, Mother." Edward bowed to his formidable dam while attempting to laugh the whole thing off. "I am teaching my bride-to-be to understand me."
The queen arched a brow. "She shall learn soon enough, of that I am certain, Your Highness."
She gazed down at us, huddled upon the floor. I'd never seen such ferocious malice in the eyes of any woman. Later, of course, I would meet eyes of an equal ferocity, those of yet another pitiless she-wolf—Margaret Beaufort—but none before or after were ever so beautiful—or so terrible—as the eyes of Marguerite de Anjou.
"My Lord of Oxford has news which concerns Your Highness." Her cruel expression only softened when her eyes fixed upon Edward, that pretty monster she'd doubtless made with some good-looking blue blood about her monkish husband’s court.
"Excuse me, Lady," Edward promptly said, turning to offer Anne a mocking bow, "but we shall certainly continue this conversation at some future time." The threat was unmistakable.
While they withdrew, I watched, from my place on the slates, the nicely made scarlet legs of the prince as he marched up the stairs. With pikes of immodest length upon his shoes, each attached to its respective knee with a fine gold chain, he was a picture-perfect French gallant. The room speedily cleared without so much as a single backward glance toward us.
"Holy Mother of God!” I could not believe what a pit of vipers the Earl had sent his family into. First, Isabel, given to duplicitous, drunken George, and now, Anne, soon to wed to this vicious boy….
All that play-acting at love! Carrying those little girls upon his shoulders, giving them ponies, hawks, toys and servants! To what did these indulgences and professions of love come? To the cruelty of putting his cherished innocents to bed with men in whose hands any Christian man would tremble to abandon the wiliest whore!
I was afraid my lady would be in tears, but daily she showed me how strong her heart was. A little water lapped within the blue, but it did not spill. Rage had carried her into new, brave terrain.
"I pray my Cousin of York kills him," she said, and not softly, either. I glanced around, but the room had emptied, servants and gentlemen alike following power.
"We may hope, Milady." I replied, getting to my feet and helping her, encumbered with the hennin and all the rest of her voluminous court clothes, up as well.
We both overlooked what logically followed. If she were rid of Edward of Lancaster, she might also be rid of her father, not to mention her great inheritance.
One misfortune at a time!
Still, I could see no other way back to England and Middleham, the place we both longed to be. Imagine being exiled forever in some foreign place, like this, where every hand was, both by nature and by nurture, against us!
* * *
Anne prayed. She wept buckets of tears in the days before her wedding. I honestly thought her poor heart would break, as she kissed Dickon’s ring over and over. I was not much help, either. I wept right along with her, for England, for our happy times at Middleham, now lost and gone forever.
The night before the ceremony, the Countess, who came to lock us in at night—such was the danger, even for noblewomen, in France—gave her daughter a ferocious lecture on duty and sangfroid.
"Enough is enough!" Grabbing Anne by the elbow, the Countess yanked her to her feet, away from the statue of the Virgin where she knelt. "You should be ashamed! Ashamed of this sniveling! You, daughter of Despensers, Beauchamps, Nevilles, Plantagenets, the noblest of the realm! You, begot of bluest blood, must not behave in this ridiculous fashion. Everyone is laughing, saying the Nevilles can no more control their children than they can control England!"
A ringing slap followed, and Anne collapsed, clutching her jaw. Naturally, this treatment did not stop her tears.
"And you!" The Countess turned to me. "Useless spotted cow I picked from a dung heap! Are you helping my daughter see her duty? Are you calming her, soothing her with medicine? No! No! By Our Lady, no! You are encouraging, blubbering right alongside her."
I crouched to avoid the blow, and got, instead, a hearty kick in the side that left me gasping. Swirling in a fury, the Countess picked up a cane and came back with it.
Anne threw herself upon her mother crying, "No! No! Please! Mama! Rosalba is good! She only loves me! Nothing is her fault."
In the meantime, the cane rose and fell upon my back. On all fours, I scuttled as fast as I could under the bed. Fortunately, it was high and set close against the wall. Once I was well under, the Countess, red and puffing with rage, could no longer reach me.
* * *
The wedding was without joy. It was, after all, only a move in the greater game, a gambit. Anne was the piece to be sacrificed.
She got through the ceremony in the cathedral without tears. She sat through supper, chin high, eyes downcast, like a statue. Still, everyone who looked into those lovely eyes could see how desperately she had been crying.
The prince said very little to her, or anyone else, even his mother. For once, he seemed preoccupied. When he kissed Anne in the service, he let her know he was as cold in the matter as she. He barely spoke to her at table, and all they exchanged was the expected ceremonial language.
We servants watched on our knees, and were fed, if at all, as was French custom, from the plates of our masters, like dogs. Anne fed me, but ate little. It was exhausting, especially when all I could think of my dear mistress at that arrogant little monster's mercy.
At last came the withdrawing, taking Anne to the bridal bed. Not accustomed to kneeling for such a stretch of hours as the French servants were, at first I could hardly stand.
Anne wobbled as if about to faint. Surrounded by the French attendants Marguerite had sent, by Grace and Margaret, she was undressed, and her glorious hair let down. Finally, she was put into the high bed naked and quaking, a lamb to the slaughter. I wanted to weep, seeing her shaking so. I wanted to comfort, dreading for her, but I dared not come too close, for fear her mother would have me whipped away.
The bedroom door opened. Queen Marguerite and the Prince, accompanied by a group of courtiers and English exiles, paraded in. Now, with the same ceremony, Prince Edward was also undressed, hidden behind robes of red and black emblazoned with ostrich feathers, supported by gentlemen. Randy jokes were passed in French, while the tone made the subject obvious.
When Edward stepped out, he revealed a cleanly made young body, well-muscled for his age. He climbed in beside Anne. While she huddled deeper beneath the covers, visibly shaking, he sat, waving and smiling at all the ladies blowing kisses. The bed curtains were pulled. I covered my mouth, fighting not to cry out loud.
My Anne! Would he hurt her, humiliate her?
I was so terrified I could hardly breathe. No one moved. I began to imagine some hitherto unsuspected, barbaric French custom.
Surely, we weren't to remain?
Then Queen Marguerite gestured, and the curtains were opened. Edward, now deep under the covers with Anne, quickly turned over. He appeared startled. The queen gestured and barked an order. Her son flushed scarlet, all the way up his back, but he obeyed, sliding quickly out of the bed. The emblazoned robes again received him. Those who had been on the side to see went about the next day laughing and telling everyone that the Prince of Lancaster had displayed "ample and ardent nature."
The Countess and the Earl of Warwick were puzzled, speechless, but the queen did not long keep us in suspense.
"Fulfill your promises, My Lord of Warwick. Every one. Rescue my dear lord from the Tower! Carry my son and me safe into London and place my husband, King Henry VI, of the rightful and royal House of Lancaster, upon his throne in Westminster. Then—and only then—shall there be consummation."
There was a whispering pandemonium, people hissing to each other in English and French. Almost everyone appeared surprised. The Earl and the Countess, stone-faced, followed the prince, now wrapped only in those glorious robes, out of the room.
Pushing my way to the bed, I fairly leapt in. A moment later, I clasped my trembling, naked friend. She grabbed me, laid her head against my shoulder, clenched her knees together and began a kind of hiccupping noise. Ladies of the French court kept calling something. They were amused, but, also, for the first time, they sounded sympathetic.
The door closed and suddenly we were alone again, forgotten. Then, those hiccups, which I feared would lead to coughing or crying, surprised me by turning into giggles.
"Oh, Blessed Mary! Dear Rosie!" Anne gasped for breath. "Do you know what the ladies say?"
"No," I said, thumping her back and giving my nurse's lecture. "Dear Milady, please don’t start a cough."
"They—they—were saying: Poor little bride! Do not be sad! The queen will relent, for her dear son the handsome prince truly desires you!"
Just when I began to imagine she had got through this awful trial without much harm, the laughter turned to tears.
"Oh, Rose! He put his hand—his fingers—straight down there. And—and—I had to let him!"
* * *
Queen Marguerite had given Anne reprieve from the final rite of marriage, but there was a strange and unforeseen effect. Prince Edward suddenly was very much in evidence. Every day there he was, either in person, attempting to make conversation, or boyishly peeping at us from behind the arras.
He began to pay Anne compliments, even deigning to use English. He tried his hand at chess with her. I am proud to report that the very first time he did, he was soundly beaten. After throwing the piece that had failed him across the room, he gave a shout of laughter, seized and kissed her hand, and told her she was "tres intelligent!" This was followed by a boyish, rueful grin.
The Countess of Warwick and her ladies watched, heartened by the groom's change of heart. My Lady Countess appeared exhausted; her fair long face was suddenly as lined as Queen Marguerite's.
What a thing to be a woman, and have to silently watch your husband hazard everything—including your life and the lives of your children—upon a single cast! The Earl was mad, and we, all of us women, knew it. Like his soldiers, however, it was our bounden duty to obey, to fall upon our swords if necessary.
We were kept well enough. We even had an English cook who prepared food after our own custom. By this, the Countess hoped to keep Anne well, and not repeat what her daughter had suffered on that last visit to France. This meant meat or fish was boiled or roasted, and presented with plain mustard or horseradish for seasoning. The French sneered at our plain fare. Theirs was God knows what smothered in odd-tasting gravies. Just the smell of some of these dishes was sufficient to send me rushing for a breath of fresh air.
* * *
The prince now handed Anne to table at every meal, always behaving with a kind of charm I could hardly believe from this spoiled mother's darling. Anne actually began to relax around him, to talk easily and not wait to be drawn out. I didn't know which I feared more, the old Prince Edward or the new one.
"And, pray, for what lucky man is that pretty song?" Emerging from behind the arras, he caught Anne playing and singing one of our sweet English love songs. Edward, in that red tunic with the scalloped, hanging sleeves! As beautiful as it was, it had become clear that he did not have many changes of clothing. A long exile makes for a lean purse.
Anne had been singing:
Ah, Westron Wind
When wilt thou blow
That the small rain
Down can rain?
Ah, that my love were
In my arms,
And I in my bed again.
It was one of Dickon's favorites. I even imagined I knew the room of which she sang, the tower room at Middleham, the one with the sweetest view over the dales, where four little girls and Nursey Cole had once-upon-a-time slept so safe.
Anne focused upon him as he spoke, and I knew she, too, had been remembering. Marriage to a prince of Lancaster, exile in a land where only French was spoken, had never been any part of her dream.
She looked down, into the full belly of the golden lute, and moved her long, sapphire-covered fingers absently over the strings.
"It is just an old song, Your Grace."
"Come, come," Edward said, sitting beside her, "you have sung it many times."
There was more, but he fell into French. Anne sat still, as if considering. She readjusted herself upon the bench, as if she were making room for the neck of the lute, while in fact she was acquiring more distance from him.
"Would you like to hear another?" She flashed a brave smile. In the backdrop of that chilly, ancient room, she wore high French fashion, a parti-colored houppelande over-skirt layered atop a gown of white satin. On her head was a padded linen turban ornamented with pearls and thick white satin braid. Not a bit of her glorious hair was in evidence.
"I would, but, I pray you, will you not tell me who it is you sing for?"
"It is only a song, My Lord."
Abruptly, Edward turned his charm upon me. "My wife had a sweetheart in England, did she not, Rosalba?" I think it was the first time he'd ever addressed me by name. "Come, come, I command you. You must tell me the truth. She has left a lover behind, has she not?"
"Lady Anne is an innocent maiden, Your Grace," I replied. "I pray you will remember My Lord, that England is not France."
"Ah! A Rose with thorns!" Edward grinned, flashing his white teeth. He shook a finger at me in playful admonishment. "They say the best servants always have sharp tongues."
"Let me play you another song, My Lord." Anne’s voice came between us.
"The Duke of Clarence says it is his little brother, Richard, whom you love. The one you were to marry before your father—returned—to his proper allegiance." Edward's pleasant mood seemed to be bleeding away.
"We were never betrothed, my Lord, so I could not have loved him."
"The Duke of Clarence says that his brother is neither tall, nor handsome, nor even very clever. He says Richard is a drab fellow with a crooked back who ought to have been pledged to the church. Could a lovely lady pine for a cripple?” Suddenly, we were back to playing cat and mouse.
"I miss England," Anne said, flushing. Cornered by the young brute, she did well, tears and temper rising in her eyes, even as she ignored his provocation. "I miss my father's beautiful castles—Warwick, Nottingham, Sheriff Hutton, and Middleham. You are not very clever, my Lord, if you cannot understand that I am homesick."
Perfect!
The young dog backed down. "Soon, I hope," he said, relenting, "with the help of your father, and the friends of my own dear father King Henry, we shall all of us make return to Angleterre. When my mother and I own London again—imagine, Lady Anne! The whole land and every castle in it shall be yours."
Anne managed a silent nod. She returned her gaze to the lute and simply began again to play. She chose a song of war, about a northern lord and his battles with the Scots.
The embellishments were many and elaborate, but she kept perfect time and tune, the subject calculated to give a man pleasure. Pushing her fingers over the strings fast and loud was as good a way as any to silence him.
For a moment, Edward seemed annoyed. Then his face grew forlorn. Relenting at last, for she really was a very good player, he gave her the courtesy of attention.
As she rippled through that elaborate fingering, I saw an involuntary smile come to his lips. Suddenly, Edward appeared sweetly handsome beneath his tumbling chestnut curls. It was odd, to keep catching glimpses of what was tender in this young man and then to run against the wicked folly of his schooling.
* * *
Of the country France I say simply: I did not like it.
The castles we saw were enormous, terrifying. Their crenellated heads reared above the countryside with a silent menace you could feel in your gut. The farmlands were meticulously cultivated, but the land was clearly overworked. Everything that was not King's or Lord’s Forest was scalped and tilled. Good soil had washed away. The stream banks gullied, a sign of too many animals grazing upon too little ground. There were only a few trees, mostly sprouting from the stone dikes between the fields. The common people looked exhausted and were poorly clothed. Both they and their animals appeared thin and hungry.
They didn't resemble English free men, and I soon learned they were not. They were serfs, as laborers had once been in England. In our country, the custom of holding men in such bondage had hung on only in some of the southern counties. In France, this injustice was the rule.
As I watched the villagers harvesting their grain, I felt a pang. They were commoners the same as me, yet here they were considered no more than domestic animals, kept as we at home kept sheep or cattle. Ever and ever more strongly, I longed for England.
* * *
A few weeks more and I was set to sleeping outside Anne’s bedroom door on the slates. One of the archers, in a moment of pity, offered an old wool cloak for me to rest my head upon.
Many things had changed since Warwick had gone back to begin the war in England. The most immediate, as far as I was concerned, was that Queen Marguerite had allowed her son to share Anne's bed.
I did not see Prince Edward emerge on the first morning, though I could hear the laughter and teasing which followed his egress. The room they'd occupied did not open into a hallway, but into other rooms. Always buttressed by attendants and soldiers they were, these French nobles, ever in fear of assassination.
When I was allowed back to Anne that first morning, I could not help but shed tears. There she sat, tousled, pale, and weary, in the act of handing the stained linen of her show, to one of Queen Marguerite's ladies. The sight of this, of course, set me to weeping.
"Stop blubbering, Rosalba!" Anne flew into fury. "By Our Lady! You should rejoice that I am at last come into the Queen's favor."
The French maids who had brought warm water in a salver, began smirking and elbowing each other. A rush of anger, at them, at the disgusting things they doubtless thought about me, quickly choked off my tears.
I retrieved Anne's robe and wrapped her up before helping out of bed, all the time feeling like a kicked dog. Even worse, as I cast the robe about her, I could smell it, the rank smell of coupling. The French maids tried jollity, but this got no better reception than my tears.
"Be silent! All of you!" Anne shouted. I had enough French now to understand that.
She was stern and matter of fact, sitting in the basin upon the floor and using the wash cloth on the inside of her long thighs. In the end, we helped her through her toilet in utter silence. She dismissed me without a glance, instructing me to "go away and help with the packing."
With French ladies to carry train and sewing basket, she departed along the dark hallway for Isabel's chambers. Her sister's recovery from that nightmare childbirth had been unsurprisingly slow.
Isabel now sat up most days, her dark, devoted Ankarette in constant attendance. The Duchess of Clarence, Anne and the Countess of Warwick, too, found surcease with handwork, laboring over tunics and robes, with coats to be worn over armor, embroidering them with heraldry: the White Swan & Ostrich Feathers of Prince Edward, the Black Bull of the Duke of Clarence, the Fleur de Lys of France quartered with the Rampant Leopards of England.
We were soon to travel to the port from which we'd sail back to England. I silently blessed Saint Alkelda of the Well, for packing was work enough for many hands to do. Still, my heart ached. I had suffered all night, praying for my lady, keeping watch as close as I could, lying upon cold stone, grieving for her. A public rebuke had been my reward.
Anne's coldness did not end. Nights, she dismissed me early. Grace, Margaret and the new French ladies put her to bed. They were the ones to wait with her, to see if the Prince would come. If he did not, they shared her bed. This hurt me terribly, but I had not needed Middleham to learn pride. That had come at my mother's knee.
I did my work, slept on the floor like a loyal dog, curled up around a bolster and covered with the old cloak. When I was free, I marched up the long, winding stairs to the battlements where I could look out over the countryside. Facing North, I wished myself a bird to fly away home.
The guards there were archers, most of them English, because we have the best. Thank the Blessed Virgin, while they grinned and teasingly greeted me, they kept to their stations. I badly needed to be left alone.
How could Anne so forget herself? Forget Dickon?
I could not stop thinking of him—of his dark hair—of his body—tough, twisted and thin as a root. I imagined him standing upon the rolling green dale, glove raised, head thrown back, one of his beloved falcons coursing. The joy in his eyes, as if, for one shining moment, he, too, could conquer the sky! Then, the image of Anne's prince would intrude. I'd envision him tupping her, making free with my own beautiful friend, now begun her life’s work as a broodmare for the Red Rose.
At first, it filled my heart with rage. There was jealousy on Dickon's behalf—not to mention my own—that Edward should be the one to hold her, to kiss her. There was anguish, mixed with self-pity. At the end, however, I found that all my pity returned to Milady. Anne had made the promise before God and man and now she must lie down, as women always must. Lie down, just like a common woman, just as my mother had, and let a husband she could never love breed her.
* * *
I closed the traveling chest, trying not to weep. Anne—and the Countess her mother—were correct. Sorrow helped neither of us.
When the Countess called for me, I folded the last of the veils, those made of that most special flax, fine and pale as a web. I walked slowly to answer her summons through the dark, torch-flaring passage. The Countess of Warwick was herself within an hour of departure. She would return to England through Portsmouth, where she was to meet her husband and his army. I expected another scolding, or, perhaps, a beating. You can imagine how slowly I walked!
"Would the queen had seen fit to allow it earlier," The Countess said, after I'd curtsied low. "We might be returning to England with a royal heir."
I bowed my head, said nothing. I was exhausted and aching from my nights upon the floor. A pretty poor peasant I'd become!
"I suppose I don't need to tell you to take good care of my daughter, do I?"
"Lady Anne is my life." In spite of how things were, it was—and always would be—true.
"Watch her diet, and you can ask Lady Van der Wey about any woman's trouble you don't understand. Now, Rosalba," she continued, precise as always in her instructions, "Although I know Mother Ash has taught you well, you are still a maid, and there are things about being a wife which only experience can teach. Never be too proud to ask for help if there is a problem you do not understand, for it is your mistresses' health at stake. As the Duchess of Clarence and Ankarette will be traveling with me, you shall be all of home there is for my dear daughter. You alone bear a very great trust."
"Yes, Milady. I understand. Everything shall be exactly as you say." I bowed my head and waited.
"Buttermilk is good for the whites." I could tell her mind was this morning full of a thousand cares, but she strained, as always, to command every detail.
"Yes, Milady. Mistress Ash has taught me that brides often suffer this. Also milfoil, as a douche."
"Good. Good. Yes, the Prince is now most eager to breed her. He is a pretty young man. My daughter should have little to complain of on that account. I wonder what changed the queen's mind?" She’d again changed course. "I heard the prince has just spent another night with my daughter. Did Lady Anne receive him properly? Did she seem of good cheer this morning?"
"Yes. Yes, Milady Countess." At this precise moment, I was the wrong person to ask for such a report.
"Good. Good! That will do, then, Rosalba. I charge you, in my absence, to always remember your duty to your mistress and to the Nevilles."
"Until death, Milady." I curtsied low again and humbly kissed the proffered hand.
She dismissed me, and I retraced my steps along the gloomy hall, wondering at how she'd rambled. Anne's fate was no longer central in her mind. That much was clear.
Certainly, the Countess feared the outcome of her husband's military adventure. All her thoughts had turned to England, to this making and breaking of yet another king, the game in which our great Earl of Warwick now hazarded all.
* * *
Anne and I returned to Honfleur with Queen Margaret and Prince Edward. Anne's mother and her sister sailed first, braced to meet Clarence and Warwick, who were already under arms in England. Their destination was Portsmouth, and theirs the last ship to set sail from France before a spell of evil weather set in.
We had heard news that King Edward had fled before the army of the Earl and his new, cobbled-together alliance of Lancastrians and Neville kin. Edward IV and his brother, Richard of Gloucester, were again fugitives. They had fled with little but the clothes on their backs to the Court of Burgundy where their sister was bestowed. Old King Henry had been taken from the Tower and raised again to the throne. Nevertheless, Queen Marguerite had hesitated to leave France, and then that terrible weather set in.
For a month, the channel churned like a gray rapid. Foul weather, which would not give over, prevented Queen Marguerite's army from embarking. Every once in a while there would be a break, and we'd sail out, but each venture ended in our return. The gales and high seas that met us were simply too dangerous.
Anne and I were sick every time, in spite of the mouth-burning ginger root Lady Van der Wey gave us to chew. We did not know what had happened to the Countess of Warwick and the Duchess of Clarence. They had set out and had not returned. Either they had made England, or they were on the bottom with the fishes. The unending apprehension left my Lady pale, off her feed and complaining of headaches and malaise.
During one of our aborted attempts to cross, the waves were so huge that water poured into our cabin. We had to sit with crossed legs like beggars, our dresses tucked around us. Watching the water surge back and forth across the floor and seep through the leaking walls, feeling the ship heave and hearing the timbers groan, I couldn't decide which was worse, the constant gut-wrenching nausea or the terror of drowning.
Anne believed our time had come. Turning to me, she suddenly cried, "Dear Rose! Forgive me for sending you away. I felt so sorry for myself, and I couldn’t do what I had to if you were near."
I had been sick and scared, but when she said that, I grew angry.
Why would I not understand? I was only a common person, but had we not grown up together?
"You are in love with your husband, the prince." I spoke with all the scorn I could muster. “So what does your servant’s love matter?”
"Don't be angry!" Tears spilled.
(Blessed Mother! That year, all we did was cry!)
"You don't know—what—what it's like. I—I can't talk to you anymore."
Didn't know the tenderness of hugging, kissing, holding? All I knew of that was chaste, gentle, fragrant—her!
"Oh, no, Milady! Matters are far contrary. You do not wish me near you."
She looked guilty. Then she blurted, "You will speak of—Dickon." She spoke his name as if it burnt her tongue. She tossed her blonde head while fresh tears spilled. She started to unfasten her necklace, but she couldn't do it.
"Help me!" Suddenly, she was impatient, commanding.
Bracing myself and praying the next wave didn't turn the ship over, I leaned close. There she was—alabaster, blue, copper—beautiful as an angel. Despite the sailors shouting, the boom of the ship as it rose and fell, the water sloshing around us, the roar of wind and the smell of vomit, this moment of accord and our old friendship held a perfect peace.
As I clutched the chain, fearful I'd drop the precious pendants upon the floor, I saw what she must be after—Dickon's ring, that fine braided gold. When she took it from me, sure enough, she let everything else fall into her lap.
"You must keep it, Rose." She handed the ring over and began restring what remained. "I must not wear it any longer. To keep faith with my husband, whom I swore to obey before God, I must break faith with my own dear cousin."
When I tried to give it back, she curled my fingers about the little ring. "Please! You must keep it. Put it beside your White Rose. As I cannot give it back to him myself, you are the only safe place I know." Her tears fell fast as the rain, spilling more salt into what was rushing back and forth upon the floor. Tears, and more tears.
What a tedious tale! At least, we did not drown. Neither did we sorrow alone, but in a kind embrace.