The Reluctant Queen

The Duchess of Gloucester

Richard and I were married and there followed two of the happiest years of my life. We were young: when the ceremony was performed I was sixteen years old and Richard was twenty -but only in years. We had both suffered experiences which had inevitably matured us. We were both deeply aware of our good fortune in being together and were determined to enjoy this happy state to the full.

How fresh seemed the northern air! And what a happy journey that was, riding side by side on the way to the home which we both loved.

The north was for Richard. The people liked his quiet ways, preferring them, I imagined, to the ostentatious splendour of his brother the king. They came out of their cottages to cheer for the Duke of Gloucester and to give him a "God bless you, your Grace." to which he responded with a dignified greeting.

How different he was from Edward and George, that pale shadow of his magnificent brother! These people knew that they could trust Richard and it was to him that they gave their loyalty. Edward had shown his wisdom when he had selected Richard to guard the northern territories.

And there was the familiar castle. My heart bounded with emotion when I saw it. It would always be home to me. Of course, there were sad memories. I felt a longing for my mother and a sadness for my father. I could not help recalling those days when he had come to the castle, his followers about him, to the shouts of "A Warwick', and I could see the banners of the Ragged Staff waving in the breeze.

We had been so proud of him, Isabel and I, as we watched from the turret. Our father the king of the north the king of the whole country, in fact if not in name, for we knew it was he who made the king and decided how he should rule. Then I thought of his body lying on the battlefield at Barnet... stripped of power ... stripped of life. A kingmaker but in death no different from the commonest soldier.

But these were morbid thoughts. I was home with my husband. At last we were together; and the past must be forgotten because it had led us to this.

How happy we were! How we laughed and remembered! There was the field where the boys had tilted; there had the hero of Agincourt taught them the arts of battle; there was the seat near the well where Richard had sat, tired from the exercises, with me beside him, the only one who was allowed to see him at such a time because no one must know that he was not as strong as the others, and I could be trusted to keep the secret.

There was much to occupy us. Nobles from the surrounding country came to Middleham to consult Richard, and each night there was entertainment in the great hall. Then Richard must make his pilgrimages through the neighbourhood, and I accompanied him. How proud I was to see how the people respected him. I liked their frank manners. I was one of them, born and bred among them. It seemed fitting to them that the lord of the north should be allied with Warwick's daughter.

It was comforting to be free of court intrigue ... far away from Clarence and his schemes ... though I should have loved to see Isabel and my mother.

I could sleep beside Richard and there were no more dreams of the cookshop. With each passing week it became more and more like a hazy fantasy.

We were far away from London, far from the court. And that in itself was wonderful.

I told Richard that George was welcome to have the rest of the Warwick estates because he had left us Middleham.

So passed those idyllic days, and then came the discovery that I was to have a child.

I had never thought such happiness possible. There was only one thing now to make me sad, I told Richard.

He was eager to know what it was.

"It is my mother. They say she is in sanctuary, but it is prison to her. How she would love to be with me and particularly to be with her grandchild." "Edward has half-promised that she shall be free," he said.

"I expect George is persuading him that is better to keep her at Beaulieu. When I see him I shall talk to him."

To talk to him you would have to go away," I said, "and that is the last thing I want."

He looked at me rather sadly then. I knew that this cosy happiness of ours could not go on for ever. One day there would come a summons for him and he would have to leave me.

I did not want to think of that. I just wanted the joy of being here with my husband where we could both look forward to the coming of our child.

Isabel wrote to me. She was exceedingly happy.

"I am going to have a child," she said.

"Oh, Anne, you cannot understand how I have longed for this! Do you remember how we set out for Calais? Oh, how I suffered! That fearsome journey ... with the ship pitching over the sea ... and there was I ... in agony. And all to no avail! Do you remember, Anne?"

I did remember. It was one of those memories I should never forget. I could recall it as clearly as though it had happened yesterday ... the solemn prayers and the little body being swallowed up on that turbulent sea.

"I am at Castle Farley which is near Bath. Here I shall stay until the child is born. I am a little frightened, but this will be different from that other. If only our mother were here! She should be with me at such a time, but George says it is better for her to be where she is."

George, I thought! It is George again who is attempting to guide our fates. Why will he not let my mother go? And why does the king think that he should be placated at such cost to us all?

"George is sure the baby is going to be a boy. I hope so too, but I am sure I should love a little girl. Oh, Anne, I do so wish that I could see you! The north is so far away. Richard will surely be coming south some time. You must come with him, I shall want to show off my child.

"Do you remember Ankarette Twynyho? She has gone back to the queen. The queen wrote to me most graciously and said that she had lost one of her women who is travelling with her husband for a year or so and Ankarette was so good with the children. She does not know of my condition, of course. So would I "lend" her Ankarette?

"So Ankarette has gone back to her. She is quite pleased to do so, I think. She will get the best of the gossip at court. So I must needs manage without her. And at such a time!

"However, I am surrounded by good friends, and think of all Ankarette will have to tell me when she comes back!"

It was with great pleasure that I wrote and told her that I, too, was about to become a mother.

I was a little sad, thinking of her. She was such a part of my life. We had bickered, as sisters will, but there was a strong bond between us. How I wished that she had not married George. But to our father it had seemed desirable that his daughter should marry the brother of the king he had made, but Isabel's marriage had come out of the attempt to unmake that king. Well, Isabel and I were there to go the way our father decided and our future had been planned by him to augment that power which had all come to nothing on the field of Barnet.

I thought of the marriage he had arranged for me and that brought back memories of Queen Margaret. I believed she had left the Tower and was in some mansion under the care of her hosts which meant that she was a prisoner still. I wondered if she would ever be allowed to go home to her family. I knew that she would be a sad and lonely woman, for never would she recover from the loss of her beloved son.

Life was cruel. Life was hard. One must rejoice when happiness came, even when one's instinct warned that it can only be transient.

Then came the day when my child was born a beautiful boy to gladden our hearts and fill us with pride. This was the culmination of happiness.

It was Richard's wish that we call him Edward after the man he most admired: and I had no objection to this.

I heard from Isabel and was overjoyed that she, too, had come safely through her ordeal. She had not been blessed with the longed-for boy, but she was very pleased with her daughter who was to be called Margaret.

I wanted my life to be always as it was at that time. If I could only know that my mother had her freedom I would have been completely happy.

Richard shared my contentment with our life at Middleham, but he had certain anxieties. There was always the danger of the Scots making trouble on the border: moreover he was a little unsure of some of the nobles. The lords of the north had been the Nevilles and the Percys, and since the power of the Nevilles had declined with the death of my father, the Percys were in the ascendant. Richard, as the king's brother, was in command over all, of course, but this rankled with the Percys. Conflict with this powerful family had to be avoided, and this was a continual concern to Richard. If we were to keep peace in the north, he needed to have the Percys working not against him but with him and he had to be constantly on the alert.

I knew that he had sent a message to Edward explaining the situation, so I supposed I should not have been surprised when an emissary from the king arrived at Middleham.

He was closeted with Richard for some time and I was fearful of what news he brought. Richard was soon able to tell me and he was very grave.

There is trouble brewing," he said.

"Is it Clarence again?"

"I fear he may be involved in it."

"Oh, Richard, what is it all about... and what does it mean?"

"The king is riding north."

"Coming here?"

"No. I am to meet him at Nottingham."

He smiled at my woebegone expression.

"It is just a meeting, but I like this not. George will always make trouble. My brother does not seem to realise how dangerous this is. The plain fact is that George resents not being born the eldest of us all. It is something which has been with him all his life."

"What is he doing now?"

"Nothing openly. But I believe he is in league with John de Were who is out to make trouble. Edward has wind of it."

"John de Were. It he not the Earl of Oxford?"

"He is and a firm Lancastrian. The de Veres always were. He was with your father when he restored Henry to the throne and fought against us at Barnet. Then he escaped to France. From there he has worked consistently against us. Now he is reported with Louis' help to have gathered together a squadron of men to make a landing. He cannot do much so there is little fear on that score, but what is alarming is George's subversive connection with him."

"Why does Edward not see the danger George is to him?"

"He will not take it seriously. George is still to him the naughty, charming little brother. You have to admit he has a persuasive way."

"Not to me. I shall never forget. But what of you, Richard? What does this mean?"

"I am to meet the king at Nottingham. He is inviting Henry Percy to be there. He is most eager to secure a pact between Percy and myself. We cannot afford trouble in the north at this time. Do not be sad. I shall be back ere long. Edward will not want the north to remain unprotected."

There was truth in that and I felt a little happier.

Richard was ready to leave early next morning. I was at the gates to see the last of him before he left.

"Take care of our son in my absence," he said.

"And of yourself. I promise I shall soon be back."

"I hope so, because I cannot be happy without you."

Then he rode south to Nottingham.

How I missed him! But how grateful I was to have my son to care for!

I promised myself that we should not follow the usual practice of sending him away to be brought up in the house of some nobleman. He should be brought up at Middleham and learn all he needed to learn here. I would not have him taken away from me.

The days seemed long. Always I was on the alert for the sound of horses' hoofs which would herald Richard's return or some messenger from him.

I sat with my women at our needlework and we took it in turns to read aloud. Perhaps one of us would play the lute as we worked or we would talk.

I was never far from little Edward. There was great alarm when he developed a chill. I sat by his cot all through the night unnecessarily, said his nurse, but I insisted. Children had ailment! and quickly recovered from them, she assured me: but as listened to his breathing disturbed by an occasional cough I suffered agonies. I lived through his death, the funeral obsequies, and I could see the little coffin, and Richard's homecoming to hear the dreadful news. I passed one of the most miserable nights of my life. And in the morning he was better.

If Richard had been here he would have shown me how foolish I was, or would he? Where our child was concerned he was as vulnerable as I was.

I prayed for my child. I had come through a great deal to reach this happiness. I could not lose it now.

I knew I should always be uneasy while Richard was away. I would always fear evil. I had been immature when I had been thrust into an unkindly world. It had left its mark on me. I should always be watching for disaster, even in the midst of my happiness.

Richard knew of it. He said I should grow away from it. But should I ever do that?

However, my child was well again, and I prayed that there would be no more alarms from little Edward.

He charmed my days. He made Richard's absence bearable. But at every moment I watched for Richard's return At last he came. He was in good spirits. I was in the solarium when he arrived and I ran down to meet him as he leaped from his horse.

"All's well," he cried, catching me in his arms.

"Come, I must tell you."

It was wonderful to sit beside him, his arm encircling me, while now and then he would hold me fast to him as though to imply he would never let me go.

He must first hear of little Edward. He was sleeping now, I told him, and his nurse never allowed him to be awakened, even for such an important event as the return of his father. I told of his chill and my agony. Richard laughed and said the nurse was right. I must not be foolishly anxious. I should rejoice that we had a healthy son.

"Now for the news," he said.

"The great Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy no less, was at Nottingham, there summoned by the king. My brother exerted all his charm. He flattered Northumberland, knew of his love for the north, realised his loyalty and so on. But I was Lord of the North. I was keeping it loyal to the crown, and, as Percy knew, that was to the advantage of us all and should remain so. He had summoned Percy so that he and I should make a pact. Percy should be treated with all the respect due to him. He should maintain all the rights which had belonged to his family. The king was asking for his cooperation, for his help in keeping peace in the north. He was certain that, for Percy's own good and the good of us all, Percy would want to be part of that pact. I was however holding the north for the crown and I was in charge. If there were any differences of opinion, I would consult Percy. But I should be in charge. Percy agreed. He does really care about the north. He wants no trouble, and I believe he trusts me. We swore to stand together. I would respect his wishes; he would accept me as the higher authority. It was all very satisfactory."

Then it was a successful meeting, and I am glad that the king realises your presence is needed here not only by Percy and the rest, but by your wife and son."

"I think he understands that too. He would not call on me to leave here unless there was something serious afoot."

As he looked a little grave I said: "Do you think that is likely to be?"

"De Were is ineffectual. What gives me cause to worry is that George might be involved in his schemes."

"Against the king?"

"It would not be the first time he has been against the king. It saddens me. It saddens Edward that we have to be suspicious of our own brother."

"Perhaps the king will realise the folly of giving way to him. He does act so impulsively. It is all so obvious."

"I know. So we must be watchful. I have another piece of news for you, and I think you will like this better." I waited expectantly as he paused, smiling at me.

"Sir James Tyrell is going to Beaulieu."

"To my mother?"

"My brother George is not in the highest favour with the king Although Edward has tried to tell himself that the rumours about George's connections with de Were are false, in his heart he can' help knowing that there is some truth in them. You know George has been putting obstacles in the way of your mother's release Well, I thought this was a good time to put my point of view, as Edward is not inclined to favour George at this moment. Edward said: "Where would the Countess go if she left Beaulieu?" I replied: "Where, but to her daughter at Middleham? Anne longs to have her with her." Then the king said to me: "Richard, you have ever been loyal to me and I love you dearly. If it would please you to take the countess to Middleham, then do so ... and to hell with George." I wasted no time and I think it will not be long ere your mother is with us."

I could not contain my delight.

I said: "Surely this is the happiest day of my life! How delighted she will be. How she will love little Edward! I cannot wait for her arrival. And you, Richard ... my dearest Richard ... have done this for me. All my happiness comes through you, and everything that went before ... yes, everything ... is worthwhile since it has brought me to this."

I was eager to give my mother a wonderful welcome when she came to Middleham. For days I set the household preparing. I was glad that Richard would be able to join me in letting her know how happy we were to have her with us.

She arrived at length with Sir James Tyrell, who had been sent by Richard to bring her. He trusted Tyrell, he told me. He was a stalwart Yorkist and had received his knighthood for his services at Tewkesbury.

She had changed. It was, after all, a long time since I had seen her and I could imagine what parting with her family had meant to her.

We clung together and looked at each other and then clung again.

"My dearest, dearest child," she kept saying, over and over again.

Arms entwined, we went into the castle. It was as dear to her as it was to me.

This," she said, "is coming home."

Happy days followed. We were together most of the time. We talked constantly of the old times, the days of my early childhood. There was sadness, of course. There were so many memories of my father, that ambitious man whose desire for power had been the very pivot round which our lives revolved.

Now he was gone; I was happily married; so was Isabel, and although she was not with us, at least we both knew that she was happy and that her new daughter was a delight to her.

At first my mother did not want to talk of my father, but later she did and she told me how terribly disturbed she had been when the rift with Edward had occurred. She had understood his anger when the king had married Elizabeth Woodville, but had realised that he had miscalculated when he refused to accept the marriage.

"Your father was right, of course," she said. That is, about the marriage. Trouble would certainly be the result not so much because of the marriage itself, but because of her ambitious relations. Who would have thought that a marriage could have had such an effect on us all?"

"Dear Mother," I said, "marriages are important. If my father had not married you, he would not have wielded the power he did. His wealth and titles came from you and therein lay his ability to make and unmake kings. Who can say what is the greatest cause of the troubles which have beset our country? We have to accept what is and when we are happy rejoice in it, for it may not endure."

"How wise you have become, little daughter," she said.

"I have seen something of the world now. I have seen how people live in the lowest places something most people born as I was never see. I think it may have taught me a little.," Then let us not repine for what has happened. Let us be glad that we are together. But how I wish Isabel could be with us! I should love to see her with my little granddaughter."

"At least we are together, Mother."

"I shall be forever grateful to Richard," said my mother.

"And I too," I assured her.

We had news from Isabel. To her delight she was once more pregnant. My mother fervently wished that she could go to her, but I pointed out that even if that were possible, she would come into the clutches of the Duke of Clarence who had done all in his power to keep her confined at Beaulieu. I could see that she did not entirely believe this. She, too, had been a victim of George's charm. It amazed me how that man could perpetrate the most atrocious crimes and with a smile shrug them aside with an air of 'let us be friends' and all seemed to be forgiven. Richard had once said he hoped that would not always be so, and there would come a time when his brother the king would see George for what he was.

However, though my mother could not go to Isabel, we could talk about her, which we did at great length. I was secretly envious that I was not in like state, and I hoped that this time Isabel would be blessed with the boy for which she so fervently longed.

There was a further summons for Richard. The king wanted his presence in London. It was sad saying farewell to him, but he hoped he would not be long, and he assured me that he would be back at Middleham at the earliest possible moment.

The days passed pleasantly with my mother, and we had little Edward with us whenever possible. He was now beginning to take notice; he could crawl around and was learning to stand up. He smiled to show his pleasure to see us and I was gratified that the pleasure was clearly the greater for me. He was adorable.

Richard returned and with him, my son and my mother safely at Middleham, I was deeply content.

There was good news from Isabel. She had a boy another Edward. A compliment to the king, of course. Isabel wrote that the boy was strong and handsome and that Margaret was a beautiful child.

I rejoiced for Isabel and the talk at that time was almost always of babies, for my mother took great pleasure in recalling incidents from my and Isabel's childhood.

But it was inevitable that there should be another call for Richard. He was too important to be left entirely in the north when he had succeeded in bringing order there so that it was the least troublesome zone in the kingdom.

This time it was to London he must go. We said a reluctant goodbye and he went with the usual promise to return as soon as possible.

After he had ridden away, life went on as before and every day I watched for Richard's return.

It seemed long before he came and when he did I realised he had some weighty matter on his mind, and I could not restrain my impatience to hear what it was. He was a little secretive at first, but he soon realised that I should have to know.

The king is contemplating going to war with France." he told me.

"He suspects Louis of offering help to de Were and, as you know, George may have been concerned in this."

"If he goes to war that will mean... that I go with him. And, of course, George also."

"Surely he cannot trust George!"

"He cannot do anything else. George would hardly fight on the side of the French."

"He would if he were offered a big enough bribe."

"Suffice it that both George and I have promised to take one hundred and twenty men at arms and a thousand archers into the field with him. Edward has made Parliament give him large sums of money: he is going round the country getting what he calls benevolences from the people. He is doing very well. You know how popular he is. People can't resist him. With his good looks and graces, he is charming the money out of their pockets, and he will soon be able to equip himself in the necessary manner."

"And so ..." I said mournfully, "you will go to France with him."

"I must," said Richard.

"He is my brother and it is at the king's command."

"But why should he want to go to war? I thought he was eager for peace."

"He thinks this is the best way to get it. Louis is interfering and you know he is Edward's enemy because of his connections with Burgundy."

"I do not see why we should be concerned with the quarrels between Frenchmen. Why cannot France and Burgundy settle their own problems?"

"They are our problems too."

"I hate the thought of war."

"It may not come."

"But you say you promised to go and the king is collecting this money."

"Let us wait and see. But... I had to tell you."

"Yes. I would rather be prepared."

"Anne, there is something else I must tell you."

"Yes?"

"I love you, Anne. I have always loved you. You were always in my thoughts ... always."

"And you in mine, Richard," I replied.

"Those other things ... they were not important in the way you were. You must understand ... and it is for you now to say yes or no and, of course, I shall understand."

"What is it, Richard? It is unlike you not to come straight out with what you want to say."

"While I was in London I had news ..."

"News? What news?"

"You know of the children ... John and Katharine?"

"Yes." I said slowly.

"You did tell me."

"It is their mother. She is dead. And the children ... they are in the care of a family. They could, of course, stay there, but I was aghast. I said: "You want them to come here?" He looked at me almost pleadingly.

"It is for you to say." I was silent. I felt a slight tinge of anger. I wanted to shout: No! I will not have them here. I know it happened. It was before we were betrothed, and I was to marry the Prince of Wales. You had this mistress. She was dear to you. She must have been. There are two children and now she is dead you want them to come here ... to be brought up with Edward. I will not have it. He said: "I see that I have shocked you."

Still I did not speak. I was afraid of the words which I might say. I was on the point of shouting, no, I will not have them here ... a constant reminder. I will not have those children here with Edward.

He turned away very sadly.

"I do understand, of course," he said.

"I should not have thought of it. You must forget I suggested it."

Forget? How could I forget? He had spoilt his homecoming.

There was a rift between us. He had brought no good tidings with him. First he might be snatched away from me to go to war and secondly he wanted me to have his bastard children in my home.

My mother knew that something was wrong. I told her first about the possibility of war and then about the children.

She was very thoughtful. She said: "I can see how he feels. They are, after all, his children."

"But how could they come here?"

"They could, of course. But it depends on you." They would expect to be brought up with Edward." They are his half-brother and sister."

"My lady Mother, they are bastards."

"Tis no fault of theirs."

"You think they should come here?"

"It is for you to decide. Richard has suggested it, has he not? It would depend on how much you love him, of course."

"You know I love him."

"Not enough to give him this."

"It is because I love him so much that I cannot bear the thought of his having children who are not mine."

"It is a selfish love," said my mother.

"And the essence of love is not selfishness."

She left me then.

Why had this to happen? Why did that woman die and leave her children to be looked after? How old were they? The boy must be about two years older than Edward; the girl could be several years older. Richard's children!

He looked so melancholy that he reminded me of the young boy who was ashamed because he tired more easily than the others. I had been sorry for him then and that was when I began to love him.

Soon he would go to war. He would fight valiantly for his brother's cause. Who knew what would happen to him in the heat of the battle? My father had died at Barnet, the Prince of Wales at Tewkesbury, Richard's father at Wakefield. War was death and destruction. And Richard was going to war with a heavy heart because he was anxious about the future of his children.

Perhaps I had known from the beginning what I must do. I wished I had not been asked to do it, but my mother was right. Love was selfless and I did love Richard, and I could not bear to see him unhappy as he was now.

I had made up my mind and as soon as I did so I was happier.

"Richard," I said, "when would John and Katharine be coming to Middleham?"

He stared at me and I saw the joy dawn in his face.

He caught me in his arms.

"You will have them here?"

"But, of course," I said.

"I thought..."

"It was a shock. I am a silly jealous creature. I could not bear the thought of there being anyone but myself." "There will never be anyone else, and there has never been anyone quite like you."

I said: "I think it will be good for Edward to have other children in the nursery."

I awaited the arrival of the children with a great deal of apprehension. Richard was nervous, too. Any day the summons might come for him to go the king; he had already gathered together the company of men he would take with him. I knew how he hated leaving Middleham at any time; but now, with his children coming here, he felt that his presence was needed more than ever. So it was an uneasy time. And at length the children arrived. I was glad they had come before he had left.

They were handsome children, both of them fair-headed, with what I thought of as the Plantagenet look tall, strong, vital. The boy was two years older than Edward and perhaps a few months more: and the girl, I guessed to be about seven years old. They were not in the least overawed, although Middleham must have seemed grand to them after their mother's dwelling and that of the family with whom they had been staying prior to their arrival here. I noticed they were very respectful to Richard. I guessed he had visited them only on rare occasions of late and they would have been told that he was of great importance, being the brother of the king. They eyed me shrewdly. I said: "Welcome to Middleham. You are Katharine, and I believe you are John."

"I am John Plantagenet," said the boy. And the girl added: "And I am Katharine Plantagenet."

"Well, this is going to be your home now."

"Yes," said Katharine, "I know. Our mother is dead. They came and took her away in a box."

She looked pathetic, so young and vulnerable. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her.

"I hope you will be happy here," I said. Then the boy came and stood before me, holding up his face to be kissed.

Richard looked outwardly calm but I well understood his emotions and I was gratified that I had agreed to have the children, for I was recalling what a mistake it would have been to refuse to do so.

I felt that the first encounter had gone off very well.

Little Edward was interested in the newcomers. They were merry and inclined to be boisterous and clearly they found the castle of great interest. John shrieked with pleasure at the armour in the hall because he had at first thought it was a man standing there. Katharine was a little more restrained.

On their first night I went to see them after they were in their beds. They were both crying quietly.

I said to them: "Tell me what is wrong."

"John wants our mother," said Katharine.

"And so do I."

I was moved. They were so young, so vulnerable. I wondered briefly what would have become of them if I had refused to take them in. They would have stayed with the family they were with, I supposed. Instinct told me that they were the kind of children who would have come through whatever troubles overtook them. But I was glad I had not turned them away.

I was going to forget that they were the result of Richard's love for another woman. I was the one who now had his love and trust and I wanted him to know how grateful I was for this, and I was going to do my best to be a mother to his children.

I said: "I shall be your mother now."

Katharine's sobs ceased and so did John's. I bent over Katharine and kissed her and suddenly she put her arms round my neck. John was waiting for me to do the same with him.

"You are going to like it at Middleham," I said.

"You will have your own horses and you can ride on the moors."

They were both sitting up in bed listening to me. And I told them that when I was a little girl I had lived here with my sister. I explained how we did our lessons in the schoolrooms which they would now have, how we learned to ride and in time were able to go wherever we wanted to on our horses.

They listened intently and I saw the sadness fade from their faces.

I said: "I am glad you two came here."

And I was. My mother was delighted. She said: "It is good to have children in the house. Houses which have stood for many years need the young to bring them to life."

Edward was very interested in his new sister and brother. Sometimes I was afraid they would be too boisterous for him. He had taken after Richard in looks and physique. I worried about him. He seemed so small. I had always been a little anxious about him but I think I became more so after the other children came.

Richard was delighted by my reception of them. He was not able to show them how much he cared about them. He was a little aloof and while they regarded him with awe and the utmost respect, it was to my mother and me that they turned.

"It is easy to see," I said, "that I am taking the place of their mother in their minds, which is how I would have it."

A few weeks passed while we waited for that summons which would call Richard to the king's side. I was dreading it for I knew it meant war. Why did there have to be these conflicts? Of what use were they? What good did they bring to anyone? We heard from occasional visitors to the castle that the king was raising a great deal of money from his benevolences. It seemed that when he appeared, handsome, splendid, and extremely agreeable, with a smile for the women and a word for the humblest, he won all hearts. It seemed inevitable that soon he must raise enough money to set out on his mission of conquest. Men were flocking to the banner of the white rose of York set in the blazing sun. War excited men. It was an escape from their humdrum lives, a chance to win booty. It was saddening. Many of them would die; others would be badly wounded. How could they want their peaceful lives disrupted just for temporary excitement?

So the days passed. My mother was so happy to be at Middleham away from Beaulieu.

"Freedom is one of the most precious gifts a man or woman can have," she said.

"I had certain comforts at Beaulieu, but there was always the knowledge that I was a prisoner. Here, I feel free and I am so happy to see you with Richard. He is a good man and he loves you truly. I am so glad he is only brother to the king and the king has sons. And in any case Clarence comes before Richard."

"You are thinking of the throne."

"It is not good to be too close to it. If your father had not wanted to rule ... if he had been content to live without power, what a different life we should all have had! He would be with us now. It is a blessing that you should be here at Middleham, away from all the intrigues and power-struggles of the court."

"I know that well. But soon Richard will have to go to war."

"It is the curse men bring upon themselves," said my mother.

"Why does Edward want to go to war? He is now safe on the throne. He must be one of the most popular kings England has ever had. Why? Why?"

"The people want wars. Look how they are flocking to his banner."

She shook her head sadly.

We were at the window. The children were in the garden with one of the nurses. John and Katharine were running and leaping, Edward toddling after them.

They are so happy together," said my mother, dismissing the gloomy subject of war.

"How right you were not to refuse to take them in, Anne."

"Yes. Richard is very content to see them settled. I think he worried a great deal about them."

"Naturally he would. He is a good father."

"He will see that they are brought up as befits their birth," I said, "and that they are well provided for."

She nodded.

"Yes, I am glad they are here. I thought I should resent them, but I find I do not. I see them as what they are ... little children ... Richard's children and responsibility, and that makes them mine. But there is one thing ..." I said and she looked at me expectantly.

Tell me, Anne." she said.

"When I look at them, I think that Edward looks a little frail."

"He is young yet."

"I think those two were lusty from birth. They have so much energy. John jumps all the time as though he finds it difficult to stand still, and Katharine seems to be constantly repressing her high spirits. They make Edward seem delicate."

"He is young. He will grow out of it."

"Oh yes, of course." I said, allowing fears to be set aside.

"He will."

The expected summons had come and Richard, with his men at arms and archers, set forth on the march south. I stood with the children, watching him go, feeling sad and full of fear. There is a great drawback about being happy and contented with life, for a person like myself lives in constant fear of losing that blissful state. But so must every loving wife feel when she sees her husband leaving for the wars.

I felt a burning anger. It was unnecessary. It was not as though we were being attacked. I thought of all those men going into battle to bring suffering and misery to people who had done them no harm whom they did not even know.

Those were long and anxious days which followed. We were waiting all the time for news, both longing for and dreading it. Those hot days of June were hard to live through.

"What is happening in France?" was the often unspoken question on everyone's lips.

The months passed. June. July. August.

I remember that September well. We had heard only fragments of news. We had one or two visitors at the castle and though they had not been able to tell us much news, we did gather that there had been no fighting in France, that King Edward and Louis had been in conference together and we should soon have news of the Treaty of Picquigny.

I was immensely relieved. But what did it mean? Edward had sailed with his magnificent army, accompanied by his brothers and their followers to join forces with the Duke of Burgundy against Louis. And there had been no fighting!

The tension was lifted a little. I felt I could wait for Richard to return.

It was September when he came. He was quiet, brooding ... and I knew that he was disturbed.

He told me about it, how the king had acted in an unprecedented manner. It was the first time I had known him critical of his brother. Of course, he had disapproved of Edward's way of living, his insatiable sexual appetite, his marriage which had caused such disasters, but previously he had always hastened to his defence. Now he was indeed dismayed and disillusioned.

"We went to France," he said.

"We had the finest English army ever taken to those shores. Henry the Fifth would have been proud of it."

"Yet there was no fighting?"

"My sister Margaret of Burgundy met us. She gave us a welcome. Alas, if only we could have relied on her husband. He is not called Charles the Rash for nothing. He was not prepared. He had marched off some time before to besiege a city against which he had a grievance, and so lost most of the forces he had on this senseless exercise. Not that that need have deterred us completely. We had this magnificent army."

"So it was decided not to fight the French?"

"Louis is sly and very clever. He knew full well that he could not stand against us. His real enemy, of course, is Burgundy. What he did suggest was a meeting between himself and Edward; and when this took place he offered Edward terms for peace which my brother could not refuse."

"But that is wonderful! It has stopped the war."

"Anne, those men were brought out to fight. They had been promised the spoils of war. They had left their homes, their work, their families, to fight for the king, to bring glory to England. This contrived peace, these bribes from Louis would bring them no benefits. They would go home empty-handed."

"But sound and well in body."

"They were looking for adventure and gain. Don't you see? That had been promised them. They had been taken from their homes merely to give a show of might to Louis."

"But there is peace!"

"Burgundy is incensed."

"Well, he was not ready for war, was he?"

"But don't you see? Edward has become friendly with his old enemy, the King of France."

"And stopped a war."

"I believe this was what Edward had in mind all the time. He did not tell me."

"Would you expect him to?"

Richard looked at me steadily and said: "Yes." And then I saw the pain in his eyes, the humiliation, and what was hurting him most was to be at odds with his brother.

"Tell me about the treaty," I said.

"It is to be a truce between the kings for seven years."

"Seven years!" I cried.

"Without a war!"

Trade comes into it. There is to be an abolition of tolls and tariffs charged on goods passing from either country, and that is to be for twelve years. And there are two clauses which mean most to Edward. His eldest daughter, Elizabeth, is to marry Charles the Dauphin; and if Elizabeth should die before the marriage, her sister Mary will take her place. But what delights my brother most is that Louis is to pay him a pension of 50,000 gold crowns each year. The first instalment has already been received by him."

"Then surely," I said, "he has achieved much with his magnificent army?"

The army went over to fight and the men are disgruntled. They are murmuring among themselves. What gain is it to them if the king gets his pensions and his daughter is to marry the Dauphin of France?"

"It is peace," I insisted.

"Many of the nobles were against it. Louis invited those whom he considered important enough to his chateau He entertained them lavishly and gave them bribes until he had most of them on his side. Louis is shrewd. He is wily. He knew that he could offer a great deal and still it would not amount to what he would have lost by fighting against an army such as Edward had managed to put in the field." He laughed bitterly.

"He was concerned about me. He knew that I deplored the whole matter. He asked me to dine with him. His flattery was sickening. What do you think he offered me? Not money. That would be too blatant... too undignified to one in my position. He offered me some fine plate and horses. I declined them. I said to him quite frankly that no amount of plate or fine horses would make me a party to this treaty."

"And what said Louis to that?"

"Louis is all suave politeness. He looked a little sad, but put on an air of understanding and implied that our differences of opinion made no difference to our friendship."

"Which is true, of course."

"He will hate me for ever."

"Oh, Richard, I am so sorry about this, but I cannot but rejoice to have you with me."

He said he, too, was glad to be home, but he wished it had been from a more honourable venture.

He stayed at Middleham for some time after that. I wondered whether Edward would do something to bring their relationship back to the old footing. But there was no summons and I wondered how deep was the rift between the two brothers.

While he was with Louis, Edward must have made a bargain with him regarding Queen Margaret, for shortly afterwards she was allowed to return to France. I heard later that her father gave the Chateau de Reaitee as her home. It was near Angers, that place where I had been betrothed to her son. Poor Margaret! I was sure she would pass her days in utter melancholy.

The king, his magnificent army intact, returned to England. He must have been feeling very pleased with himself. As far as I was concerned, I thought he had managed a very clever stroke of statesmanship, to have brought about peace without fighting, as well as making arrangements for trading and having acquired a pension.

But there were many who did not see it as I did Richard for one.

But during the next months he seemed to forget his disappointment.

The northern marches claimed his attention and that was where his heart was. He was happy to be away from the court; he loved to ride with the children and to watch our little one grow. There were times when he was called away to various parts of the northern territories, but he was never away for long and when he returned there were always happy reunions.

I was glad of my mother's company. We often spoke of our regret that Isabel was so far away. She wrote to us from time to time, as we did to her, and we would anxiously await news of little Margaret and Edward.

We heard that she was once more pregnant. I felt envious. I yearned to have another child. I continued to worry about my Edward's health, particularly as his half-brother and -sister seemed to grow every day. Edward was so small and thin; he tired far more easily than John who with his sister made such a healthy pair that they continually drew my attention to Edward's frailty.

Isabel wrote that she had not been well. That irritating cough had come back, as it did periodically. Perhaps she would be better when the baby was born. George was eager to have another boy, but to her it was of little importance: all she wanted was a healthy child.

"The queen has been most gracious," she wrote.

"She seems determined to be friendly. She has sent Ankarette Twynyho back to me. She said that Ankarette was so good with children and for ladies in my condition, so she would thank me for lending her and would send her back to be with me at such a time. I am pleased to have Ankarette with me. She is full of gossip and regales me with talk of the court and Madam Elizabeth herself who, it seems, is more regal than the king ever was. Ankarette says the Woodvilles run the court and the queen is always seeking higher and higher places even for the most insignificant members of her clan."

My mother said: "The queen is very clever. Any woman who has managed to keep Edward all these years must be. I know how she does it, of course. It is by closing her eyes to his many amours. I do not think I could have done that if I had been in her place and I thank God I was never called upon to do it in mine. I was lucky in my marriage."

"My father was lucky, too. Where would he have been without you?"

"Your father would have been a great man. It just happened that the wealth and titles I brought to him helped him to get what he wanted a little earlier."

"And brought him to his end," I said sadly.

"Yes, that is true. But most men of influence end up either on the battlefield or the block."

"Would it not be better to have no influence and die peacefully in bed after having lived a long life?"

"I feel sure they would not agree with you, Anne. And what a morbid subject! Do you think we should make some garments for Isabel's baby? I should like to try that new embroidery stitch I learned the other day."

So we stitched and we talked and we often spoke of Isabel.

We were stunned when the news came. I helped my mother to her bed. I had never seen her so stricken.

Isabel was dead. She had died after her little boy was born and he soon followed his mother to the grave.

I could not believe it. Isabel ... dead! There were so many memories of her. She had been so much a part of my childhood. She was too young to die.

My mother wept in silence at night. By day she was withdrawn. I had never seen a face so sad as hers.

As for myself, I was equally desolate. It was inconceivable. Never to see Isabel again! Never to receive a letter from her.

I thought of those little ones: Margaret and Edward. Poor motherless children. And George? He had loved her, I believe, in his way, although I could not believe he would ever love anyone but himself, I

had never heard that he was unfaithful. At least he was not like the king in that respect.

How hard it was to believe that Isabel was dead, and for a long time afterwards I would find myself thinking: I will write and tell Isabel that.

Death was in the air. Isabel had died in December just before Christmas a sad time to die and in January there was another death.

Isabel's was of little importance in court circles, but that of Charles the Rash was another matter.

The Duke of Burgundy dead meant that the heiress to his vast estates was a woman his daughter Mary. So Mary of Burgundy had become the most desirable parti in Europe. Richard was thoughtful. He talked to me of it. He said: "I wonder what Edward is thinking now. Louis paid him to keep away because Burgundy was Edward's ally and Louis feared Burgundy more than he feared England. But what will happen now that Burgundy is no more?" There is, of course, Mary."

"A woman!" said Richard.

"Whom will she take for her husband? That is what everyone will be watching. She will need a strong man to stand beside and hold what she has inherited. You will see now, there will be a rush to marry her from all the most ambitious men in Europe."

"Poor Mary." I said.

"She will be married for her estates."

"I believe her to be a strong-minded young woman," said Richard.

"She might insist on making up her own mind as to which man she will marry. It will be interesting. Her stepmother -our sister Margaret, as you know may have some influence with her. If she had an English husband, that would do us no harm. Margaret will surely think of that."

It soon became clear that the demise of the Duke of Burgundy was going to have a big effect on a number of people.

In the first place, Edward called a council and Richard was summoned to London. As always he was loth to leave Middleham and the family life which he loved. "Why should you not come with me, Anne?" he said.

I was pleased, although I hated the thought of leaving Middleham and the children. Yet I felt that on this occasion Richard particularly wanted to have me with him. Always at the back of his mind was the question of what George might do next. Isabel was dead and George would be free to many. I believe some premonition of what would happen was in Richard's mind. It might have been that he needed someone with him to whom he could talk freely, someone in whom he could have complete trust. I was that one.

The journey will be hard going," he said, "for we shall have to travel with all speed if we are to get there in time for the first day of the council meeting."

I knew I could leave the children in the care of their nurses and attendants and Richard and I left for the south.

I felt uneasy to be at court. Clarence was there. He met me with an absolute nonchalance, as though the cookshop incident had never happened. He talked sentimentally of Isabel and said he was heart-broken; but his expressions of pleasure at seeing me and his recollections of his dear Isabel struck me as somewhat false. As with his brother Edward, when one saw them after an absence, one was always aware of their outstanding good looks -the height, the splendid physique, the clean-cut features, the almost perfectly masculine beauty. But I fancied Clarence looked a little bloated: his complexion was more florid. I knew of his fondness for good malmsey. Isabel used to say she often chided him for drinking too much: and when he drank he went into realms of fancy, seeing himself as the all-powerful one the king, no less.

When we arrived in London the council was already sitting. Edward, I knew, would be delighted to have Richard's support. He would be very wary of Clarence. I wondered that he allowed him to come to the council after his past record. Edward seemed to wave all that aside simply because he would not let himself believe that he had a brother who would betray him if he had a chance to do so.

After that first council meeting, Richard told me that the discussion had centred on trade. The great concern was what the effect would be on our English markets, and of course whether the death of Burgundy England's ally and Louis' enemy -would give Louis an opportunity of refusing to honour his treaty. However, Edward had a secret meeting with Richard and this I believe was at the root of his concern as much as any other.

In our apartments, as we lay in bed, Richard unburdened himself to me. After all, I was with him that he might talk openly to someone whom he could trust. He had once said that talking to me was like talking to himself and as he listened to himself he saw a subject from a different angle. Moreover he knew that everything he said to me would go no farther.

"Edward's real concern is not so much with trade and the pension, for he believes he can keep trade going and still have a hold on Louis. But our sister of Burgundy is trying to arrange a match between Mary and George."

"But Isabel..."

"Isabel is conveniently dead. If I know our brother, he will be on the look-out for a convenient match ... and what could be more so than this? Burgundy is one of the greatest estates in Europe. Clarence is avid for power. He wants the throne of England, of course. In his heart Edward knows that. But there is another matter. Burgundy has always believed it has a claim to the English throne. What do you think would happen if Clarence married Mary of Burgundy?"

"I think in the first place that Edward would never allow it."

"You are right. I know he seems easy-going, but when it is necessary, he can be strong. He likes peace. He is affable almost to a fault and it will need a good deal to provoke him. But in a matter like this he will stand firm."

"Margaret, your sister, wants it."

"Margaret always loved George dearly. I was so jealous of him when we were young. As I have told you, to Margaret he was always her dear little brother, so handsome and charming. Edward was the same as far as George was concerned. But Edward will certainly not allow this Burgundian marriage."

"And Clarence?"

"I am afraid he will be vengeful."

"Against the king? Will he dare?"

"When he is in one of his impulsive moods, he will dare anything. He does not look beyond the immediate present. He sees his wild dreams come true. I'll swear that now he is seeing himself Lord of Burgundy and doubtless ... in due course ... conqueror of England."

"He frightens me, Richard."

"He frightens us all. If he were not the king's brother and Edward were not the man he is Clarence would have lost his head long ere this. Margaret stresses the point that Mary should marry an Englishman to ensure that the ties between us are kept intact. We all agree. But what Englishman? Not Clarence. Not Rivers."

"Rivers?"

The queen's brother. Edward had allowed his name to go forward as a possible husband. It is only because the queen has pleaded for it. Everyone knows how she constantly puts forward members of her family. That has been one of the main troubles since Edward married her. Edward placates her, particularly when he knows there is not a chance of her attaining her ambitions."

"You mean that Edward has actually allowed Rivers to seek Mary's hand in competition with George?"

"He will not allow Clarence to be in the running."

"Yet Rivers is there?"

"Rivers has not a chance. Mary would laugh at the suggestion. So would everyone else ... except the queen who is robbed of her good sense where the promotion of her family is concerned. She thinks that because she, a woman of no standing, succeeded in marrying a king, she can pair off members of her family with all the great houses, not only in England but in Europe."

"And your sister Margaret favours Clarence! Does she have much influence with Mary?"

"She may have, but Mary is a strong-minded young woman. She will have her own views, I doubt not. What she needs is a strong man beside her and neither Clarence nor Rivers would fit the role. She would, of course, reject them both. But, in view of Margaret's preference for George, Edward says he cannot allow his name to go forward."

"I can see why he is worried. But what will Clarence say when he, the king's brother, is rejected by the king while Rivers is offered?"

"He will be furious. There is no doubt of that."

"And say that the king favoured his wife's brother and rejected his own."

"He will say a great many things, then lose his senses in his favourite malmsey and think up some ambitious project."

How I wished we could leave court and all the intrigues. My heart was in Middleham. I think Richard's was too.

I was with Richard when Clarence stormed in. Richard dismissed everyone else and I was alone with him and his brother.

"I will endure this no more." burst out Clarence.

"There is a conspiracy against me."

"That is not so, George," began Richard.

"And if you are referring to this Burgundy matter "My brother would not allow me to accept the offer. Yet that nobody ... that upstart, prancing Rivers ..."

"George, Edward knew from the beginning that Rivers would be unacceptable."

"He has insulted me. I am not good enough. I, the king's brother, the Duke of Clarence of the House of York ... yet that ninny ... just because he is the brother of that... witch! God give me patience. How much longer shall I endure these insults? I ... who have every right to the crown of this land ..."

"George, be careful." said Richard.

"You, brother. You are a toady. Edward is the king, you say. You dance to his tune. You are his favourite brother because you have no spirit. We should stand against him ... both of us."

This is treason." said Richard.

George laughed at him. The good little brother. Was it not always so? Edward is right. Edward is wonderful. We must obey Edward, even when he marries a witch. Edward could never leave women alone ... and he learns nothing. He is duped by that witch who would set her family up against us. This is the end."

"Have a care, George, lest it should be the end of Edward's leniency towards you."

"I shall endure no more."

"You have endured nothing. Mary herself will choose her husband. If she wants you, the offer will be made, and rest assured she will laugh the idea of Rivers to scorn."

"Our brother must be mad to allow his name to be suggested."

"Only because it will not be received with any seriousness." "Our sister Margaret wants me. She has said so."

"George, if Mary wants you, rest assured there will be a match for you with Burgundy."

"Edward will try to stop it."

"Wait and see."

"You and I should stand against this tyranny. Oh, I know you, little Gloucester. You would never stand against Edward ... treat you how he would."

"I have never had anything but love and kindness from him."

That's because you toady all the time."

"Would it not be better if you were a little more loyal to the king?"

George stalked impatiently from the chamber.

When he had gone, Richard said.

"You see how indiscreet he is? I only hope he does not destroy himself."

"If he is destroyed, he will have none but himself to blame."

"He is inflamed by wine. He will calm down in time."

"I hope it will be soon. He seems very eager to marry again although it is only a short time since Isabel died. I thought he cared for her. I know she cared for him."

"A lot of people have cared for George. We all did. I have told you often how Margaret and Edward doted on him. George cares only for himself. He is a dreamer of wild dreams. He sees a consummation of these dreams but he refuses to accept what is necessary to reach it. That is his trouble. He has already had a try for the throne with your father. He refuses to see that Edward has been amazingly kind to him, to take him back ... to treat him like I brother. Anyone but George would have learned his lesson. But George never learns. I fear for him and for us."

"Richard, you have so many cares," I said.

"I wish we could go .home and live quietly."

Richard sighed and I knew he shared my wish.

Clarence was certainly in a wild mood. His anger was directed mainly against the Woodvilles, and he decided to take the law into his own hands.

At first there were rumours which shocked me deeply.

I heard two of the women who had accompanied me from Middleham discussing Isabel and I wanted to know what they were saying about my sister. They were loth to tell me at first, but I insisted.

They are saying that she was poisoned, my lady." said one.

"Poisoned! My sister! That is not true."

"My lady, it is what is said."

"I want to know more of this."

The duke, my lady, is prostrate with grief."

Prostrate with grief, I thought! It did not seem so since he was proposing to marry Mary of Burgundy.

They say he is determined to find the culprits."

They could tell me no more. I asked Richard about it.

There will often be such rumours," he said.

"One should not take a great deal of notice of them. It may be that someone was saying Isabel was young to die and the rumour starts. People are always ready to suspect poison when someone dies."

"Isabel was never strong."

Richard looked at me anxiously. I guessed what he was thinking. Why should Warwick, the strong man, and his healthy wife, produce only two delicate daughters? I guessed that thought had often been in his mind. With Isabel's death, his anxiety about my health had been increased.

I went to him and laid my hand on his arm.

"I am going to live for a long time," I said.

"I must... for you and Edward. As for Isabel ... that last child, little Richard, was too much for her. She was not well before. She had already had three children ... the last two too soon together. This rumour of poison is nonsense."

On Isabel's death Ankarette Twynyho had returned to her native village in Somerset and decided that she would settle there among members of her family. I am sure Ankarette would have been very contented and would have become quite a figure in the village with her anecdotes about the court and people in high places.

She had served the queen as well as my sister and therefore Clarence turned his attention to her.

He must have been the one who set in circulation the rumours that his wife had been poisoned, and as his hatred against the Woodville family had been intensified by this recent rivalry for the hand of Mary of Burgundy, he decided he would find a way of calling attention to their villainy.

With a company of guards he rode down to Somerset and there found Ankarette. His men seized her and took her off to Warwick to be tried for the murder of my sister and her baby son.

Clarence implied that she was a servant of the queen and that the queen had sent her to my sister with instructions to poison her and her child.

He set up his own judge and jury who, on his orders, found her guilty of the crime and condemned her to death by hanging.

The sentence was carried out without delay.

When I heard the news I was overcome with horror. I had known Ankarette well. She was quite incapable of such a deed. She had been very fond of Isabel and had loved all children.

Clarence was crazy. Why should she want to poison Isabel? Clarence hinted that the woman was obeying the orders of her mistress, the queen.

Richard was both bewildered and shocked.

"What a fool my brother is!" he cried.

"He acts without thinking. He just wants to strike a blow at the Woodvilles and he does this terrible thing to an innocent woman. After this, they will work against him more than they ever did before. He has proclaimed himself not only their enemy but as a reckless, foolish man, a creature of no judgement. He will destroy himself."

I thought perhaps that would be the best thing ... for him and for us all.

"You see what he has done?" went on Richard.

"He has not only murdered this innocent woman, but he has behaved in a manner which would only be permissible if he were king. He has taken the law into his own hands, which no subject must do. He must stop this rash behaviour or he will certainly find himself in such danger from which even the king will not be able to save him."

As for myself, I was shocked beyond measure. I could only think of poor Ankarette, that chatty, lovable woman, hanging lifeless from a rope.