Five Lives and Deaths Anne Neville Did Not Have, or Divergences

by PoppySmic

Summary:

Things that might have, but did not happen. Five divergences of Anne Neville's path, moving forwards from her beginning.

Chapter 1: Failure to Thrive

1. Failure to Thrive, June 1456, Warwick Castle

 

The black velvet of his doublet was sodden with rain. The water, falling in fat droplets from the undulations of its surface, the elbow, the shoulders, looked stained with ink. It collected on the ground, forming dark, dull puddles around his feet. He looked as though he were emerging from a pit.

Emerging from, perhaps, or descending into.

It was difficult to tell. The water obscured the truth of the image.

Such rain was unlucky in June. Indeed, it would have been considered unlucky at any time but now seemed doubly so: luck had departed the Nevilles in recent weeks.

A fortnight ago he had buried his Countess. Now, today, he had buried his daughter. Born late and yet still impossibly small, with limbs so pliant as to appear to lack the very bones by which they were formed, the child had not thrived. Rather, had confounded expectations by clinging so fiercely, and with such small hands, to life for this long.

He had begun to hope, to allow himself to think that their daughter had inherited the intractable resolve of her parents. Resolve for which he was famous, or infamous - depending on whom was speaking, but which he knew to be shared equally in his marriage.

But a baby’s grasp is never sure. And this child had proved too like her mother, for she too now had left him. Slipping silently away though, not torn like the screams he had heard wrought from the confinement rooms. A castle’s walls are not so very thick.

And still rain pooled at his feet. He ought to return inside but the rhythm of the water hitting his cheeks, eyes, throat, helped him to think. To concentrate on what he must now do. For a Neville cannot be unlucky for long, must not face the turning of fortune’s wheel with equanimity, but power it by his own hand till he mounted its summit and then arrested its forward momentum to remain there.

His mind already turning to that task, his calculations beginning to assuage his grief, he knew what was he needed. Anne, for all that she had been his steadfast Countess, had not been fertile: the Beauchamps were not breeding stock. But there was Isabelle. And there must be siblings for his Isabelle; the sole inhabitant of a large nursery that would become populous with more girls and, please God, sons.

Then, then, he would turn fortune’s wheel to his whim.

That was later though. Now he would loiter a while longer suspended from its bottom rung, feet submersing into their inky pool. Head bowed but mind alert to the wonderings of what his wife and daughter, his two Annes, might have done; what together they do now.

He focussed on that.

For now.

Chapter 2: Pneumonic Plague, February 1469, Westminster

 

 

“This year [1469] saw great mortality and death in London and many other parts of this realm. A great pestilence swept all England, the young especially being greatly afflicted [….] ” Marlborough Brut Chronicle, English MS 102, 95v c.a 1480

 

The Marlborough Brut Chronicle is of significant value to medieval historians. Its description of the years 1450 to 1480 are particularly important, recording the turbulent final years of Henry VI’s reign, the ascension of the House of York to the throne and the devastating plague outbreak of 1469, commonly known as the Second Black Death.

In contrast to its earlier cousin, which occurred a century before, the second pestilential outbreak to strike England was pneumonic, not bubonic, in nature. Striking the pulmonary rather than lymphatic system, the disease was shorter in duration and considerably deadlier: survival rates were a mere 10%.

The consequences for the still recovering English populace were devastating: the population level shrank to less than 3 million. It was only well into the 1500s that the population began to steadily rise again.

This second plague differed too in the wide range of its victims: large sections of the social elite as well as the peasant class perished. Amongst these high profile casualties were the Queen herself, Elizabeth Woodville, two ex-Chancellors, three Archbishops of Canterbury who died in quick succession, the Dukes of Buckingham, Westmoreland and Norfolk, the Earl of Worcester and Countess of Wiltshire as well as the newly married Duchess of Gloucester, nee Anne Neville.

This destruction of a large portion of the ruling class had an immediate and lasting effect on the period. The death of the Queen without leaving a male heir necessitated Edward IV’s remarriage. Guided by the Earl of Warwick, he found his new wife abroad, Princess Catherine of Portugal, thus consolidating the ties between these two Plantagenet royal houses. The match was a relatively successful one albeit despite Edward’s notorious philandering - two male heirs, Edward and George, were born in the consecutive years 1471 and 1472 as well another daughter, Joan, to join the two surviving from Edward’s first marriage.

Notably the marriage also helped to heal the rift that had opened between Warwick and the King, despite Edward having allowed the union between Warwick’s younger daughter Anne and his own youngest brother, Richard. The marriage of the Gloucesters, however, had soothed rather than entirely placated relations between the two men.

As an interesting aside, the famously beautiful chantry chapel, see figure 3, outside of Richmond was later built by the Duke of Gloucester in remembrance of his young bride. Its striking façade and elegant interior are fine examples of the architectural style of the period.

Historically, this second visitation of the plague quickened the decline of the feudal system. For more on this process of reformation consult Simon Roffey’s influential work “Early Modern Government” […]

 

Extracted from Quick Introduction to Medieval English History, Blanche Swynford (Blackwell Publishing, 1994): 45-7

 

Chapter 3: Dowager Princess of Wales, 1471, just North of the River Trent

Perhaps Marguerite of Anjou regretted schooling her so thoroughly in the behaviour of a Queen militant, Anne thought derisively whilst the march North broke for the night. Though really, she considered, her mother-in-law ought to have reflected that the skills she had so ruthlessly taught might not, for virtue of the manner of their teaching, be utilised in her favour.  

But long term planning Anne had found was not Marguerite’s strength. Alas for her then: Anne had found planning to be her vocation.

 

---

 

It began when the news from Barnet had reached them not long after their arrival in England. More precisely, when news of the casualties found them. Anne’s heart had wept for her sister at George’s death if not so much for the man himself - there had to be a limit, after all, to the times one could comfortably switch sides. To die alongside his brother then was an incongruously honourable end for that most charming of rogues, Clarence.

But for Edward too to die? A man of such strength? 

She would not have believed it, not of any other battle. But one that could claim her father, she thought, could also claim any golden headed son of York.  Even two. And if the politics of power have driven these three apart then that battlefield outside Barnet had been the site of their reunion; in death though, for all other roads they had barred to themselves and each other.

So Marguerite sped to London desperately parading her triumph. Her son, Anne’s unlikely husband, had been left to stamp out what remained of the leaderless Yorkist support – for who alone could rally them? The youngest son? Barely more than a boy? It was hardly a fair match. And Anne. Anne, forgotten once more, was left to her own thoughts.

It was really one thought though, a calculation at that: how often could all England be drawn up against each other?

They said St Albans was the worst it could be, but then Towton was undoubtedly, unfathomably worse than that. And now Barnet. Barnet’s casualties were higher still. Not just her fathers, brothers, cousins. Rather just fathers, brothers, cousins. Husbands. Sons. Neighbours. Perhaps that’s how this would end after all, with a pair of York and Lancastrian neighbours throwing stones over their adjoining hedgerow whilst all behind them their farmer’s fields were rotted with the dead.

The problem concerned her for some time. From their landing in Worthing, in fact, all the way to Biggin Hill. As the smaller dwellings of the South coast enlarged as they grew closer to the capital so in equal measure did the strength of her conclusion.

These men had to be stupid.

It was the only logical explanation. That for all their undoubted education, their strength, their stunning bravery, they still couldn’t avoid running at and killing each other. So surely that meant there would be another Barnet. That those two neighbours ought now to start collecting their projectiles. It was inexorable.

 Richard quite fortunately proved this hypothesis. To be frank, it was foolish action of his. But also, somehow, reassuringly familiar that he would risk all on one final devastating charge straight out of the tales of Arthur or Gawain or Sir Percival.

Anne looked across at him now, astride his charger. Lucky for him that just as his attack on Biggin Hill began, she finished the ordering of her own thoughts.

“Do you know you’re smirking? It’s hardly ladylike. Your Mistress Wenshaw back at Middleham would turn white with fright if she could now see the look on your face.”

“Then I’m sure your old Sir John would be positively starlit if he knew his favourite Richard had to have been saved in battle. By a Girl.”

 “Not by a girl.”

“Oh? I was unaware cross-channel voyages could do that to a person. Is it commonly known? No wonder we so dislike France. How inconveniencing.”

He turned his horse to face her, the movement sharp but his eyes soft, laughing.

“I rather meant, you were a Princess. And as I recall, at that point not a dowager Princess either.”

“Well that’s a relief. Reopen the Channel ports.”

“And would that be with your men or mine?” He had dismounted now. Walked towards her with his hands open, ready to lift her down from her saddle. Anne released the reins and he brought her within the circle of his arms.

 Lifting her eyes to met his gaze, she murmured her reply, “I thought we agreed on them being ours.” 

A pause.

A pinch of his shoulder, then a laugh: “but if you really think your two score men are up to the task, feel free to send them to it. Though I think mine are better anyway.”

She knows that’s a slight exaggeration of their technical skill.

But her men are remarkably loyal. Almost unthinkably so: she is, after all, a girl. Yet they followed her at Biggin Hill, follow her still and more keep coming. It seems the straightness of her words combined with the youthful curves of her body to them appear frighteningly, wonderfully, new. And after every old idea died with and at Barnet, new seems as good thing as any to cleave to.

Her mother-in-law calls her deviant. Richard once called her irresistible and she couldn’t name the look in his eye when he did. Not until he winked, most uncharacteristically, and cleared the clouds in his eyes that have followed his brothers’ deaths. Her father’s too, she thinks and understands: sometimes her own eyes blur. That’s when she feels too young and far too old precisely at the same time.

But when the panic recedes, when her mind clears she knows that they’re only irresistible together; when their jagged edges caused by this cousin’s war fold together and around each other.

Like they are now, because Richard’s laughing with her. Still laughing when he replies, “Of course they are!” But there’s a tilt to his head that hints to his sincerity and as he moves closer still, to brush the dust from the road off her cheek, she can’t help her blush.

So she dips her head, appears to consider something carefully while the pinkness recedes. “Perhaps,” she says and he nods, eyes very dark, “before we think of our trade policy we ought to capture this errant Queen first?”

“Well.” It’s a grin Anne has seen before. She remembers it from a Yorkshire childhood that actually did turn Mistress Wenshaw and old Sir John’s hair white. 

“Since we’re here” he says and takes her hand.

 

---

 

They shouldn’t survive so close together, this son of York and bride of Lancaster. But she’s no longer a bride and he’s a fatherless son and a brotherless brother and besides there’s less than a hundred miles from York to Lancaster altogether.

So they can and do walk across their camp together. Just as they will cross to Marguerite as they stop her retreat three days hence. Just as they will at their coronation. Though they will walk more solemnly then because of the weight of the furs and eyes upon them.  But not because of the weight of the crown- it’s lighter shared.

Besides Anne hasn’t planned on being crowned with Marguerite’s blood burnished coronet.  They will have no need for it. For instead, they plan to crown their country with their rule. 

Notes:

I realised the first two scenarios were super depressing so hopefully this one is a bit happier

Chapter 4: Countess of Westmorland, 1473, Barnard Castle

“I hate Twelfth Night.”

“Francis! You’re talking to yourself! And its not even interesting conversation, everyone knows you hate the winter festival. Or indeed, festivals altogether. You’d think you’d know as well and wouldn’t have to tell yourself.”

“You, my dear wife, are a minx.”

“Me? Not at all my lord, I’m perfectly dutiful and obedient to your will.”

“Of course, which is why we are here amongst your populous and unfailingly gregarious family.”

“Quite.” Then “Francis, don’t strangle that glass so tightly. It’s beginning to crack.”

“As am I!” he replied with such a woe-begotten sigh Isabelle couldn’t contain her laugh.

“Oh dear, you do seem to be fading rather! But think of this, would you rather be at court? With such an ascetic King and cross Queen, smaller cake and weaker punch? And fewer friends?”

“I think I could manage with fewer of the latter now. The weaker punch would be unconscionable, however. I’d altogether far rather be at home. Alone with you. And with…” he trailed off and made a vague gesture to her mid-section.

The grin that was pulling at his lips was quite at odds with the grumpiness of his words though. His rancour was as much apart of the Twelfth Night celebrations as the feast and drinking and the Lord of Misrule. Secretly he quite enjoyed playing his role. After five years of marriage, no one knew that better than she.

But playing along, Isabelle took his arm and leaning in murmured, “I can think of two who don’t share your lack of enthusiasm for the festivities,” gesturing towards the opposite corner of the hall. And there underneath the tapestry of a canoodling Lancelot and Guinevere were a dark and lighter head bending together. Not quite canoodling, but sharing more than a passing resemblance to the lovers behind them.

“Well now!” That seemed to have perked Francis up no end. “Its taken Dickon long enough. He’s been pulling her plaits since he first fell off the quintain and she first cried then laughed at it.” He laughed and shook his head.

There was, however, an underlying and potentially unpleasant thought, “but how will the Earl, that famous friend of Lancaster, feel about his darling daughter joining with only the youngest son of the rebellious Duke of York? It’s not a bad match - she would be a Countess, but Anne could find wealthier suitors.” In loyalty to his friend he added, “though none so devoted.”

 Isabelle paused a moment before answering, “you’re right and it has worried me since I watched them growing closer. Dickon was entrusted to us in order to insure York’s loyalty. But all those troubles seem so long ago now. The King has forgiven his father and knows him to be respectful of his crown. And Dickon’s lands are not so small. Nor will his income be. And marriage is by far the nicest way to resolve whatever conflict may remain. Besides,” here she glanced over at her father in fine fettle with her Uncles, “Father has a soft spot for him. And we can’t all be the Francis Lovells of the world.”

Her husband’s chest undoubtedly puffed at that. Half in jest. Half because of the wine.

His eyes were clear though, as they always were. Looking down at his wife, his gaze was as gentle as his voice for he spoke quietly, “they will be happy together, I think.” And she nodded in agreement.

Then he added louder, and in a tone of much bemusement, “that’ll be another blasted in-law to add to the pile then.”

Isabelle could help her laughter, for her husband’s was such a funny character, pretending so hard to be misanthropic but really his heart was utterly romantic.

The two figures over in the corner paid no mind whatsoever. They were otherwise engaged. 

Chapter 5: Queen, 1486, Locations Various

Wensleydale, late January 1486

 

The blanket of snow that had covered the ground was losing its crisp brilliance. As more of the men, horses, carts, artillery and wagons wound their way around the foot of the hills, the snow was lost. It became only grey sludge, like that plastered up the sides of Richard’s boots. It would have to be scraped off on their eventual stop.

It wasn’t often that Richard was in a poetic cast of mind. Or, more precisely, it had not been often of late that he’d felt anything like reflecting on artistic matters. Yet there was something in the gradual transformation of that pure whiteness that captured his thoughts. It drew his mind away from the practicalities of troop deployment and provision and military strategy and towards thoughts more poetical, more abstruse. Away from cold marches and into warm solars. Away from the baser talk of soldiers and towards real conversation. Conversation held with one in particular, that had occurred so often in the past yet, by necessity, not at all in the last months. Even before his departure they had become marked altogether by stiltedness.

Looking across at Francis, Richard pointed out a smudge on the horizon.

“We’re nearly there. We can escape the snow for a time. Leave it at the door at least.”

The bundle of capes and woollen scarfs that swelled Francis’s lanky frame shook. There followed a laborious unwrapping of layers until eventually a nose appeared, followed, reluctantly, by a mouth. 

It spoke, “Good. I’ve frozen. There best be a hot bath there ready to melt me human again.”

Francis for all his long residences in the North had never acclimatised to its weather, particularly the harshness of its winters. Much to his chagrin and his friends’ amusement.

Casting a glance behind him, Richard replied, “With 8,000 men to quarter and provide for, I doubt even you can afford such a luxury, Francis. I don’t intend to stay long. There would be little point in heating the water. Though perhaps, if you’re pleasant enough, you’ll get your wish.”

“Well it’s hardly unreasonable. Only I would, at some point, like to reacquaint myself with the sensation of warmth.” Francis aimed his tone at levity and, at any other point on their journey, would have been rewarded with a laugh. Even a quip in retort.  But here he earned nothing more than the faint lifting of the corners of Richard’s mouth.

He understood why.

Francis turned his gaze to match Richard’s own, fixed on that growing dark smudge on the horizon.

“Dickon,” he said, “it was home once.”

“Once,” came the short reply.

Aware that the conversation was at an end, Francis busied himself rearranging his layers of heat preservation. His cloak, scarfs and mufflers were still in disarray when Richard had kicked his charger on.

Leaving Francis behind, the King rode away, seeking clearness of mind from the speed of his horse’s hooves. Behind him his wake lingered, a sudden whirl of white and brown and grey polluted snow.

Francis sighed and his breath hung, frozen in the coldness of the air.

  

---

  

Nottingham, September 1485

 

“Bloody mess, of course. Bloody Stanley. Loyalty of a rat. Lucky really he’s got the brains of one too. Or had I suppose. Though there seemed to be enough of them splashed about when Percy’s men were through.” Jocky Howard, Earl of Norfolk, grimaced but continued sucking the marrow from his chicken bone. Battle always made him hungry, whether in its exertions or just their recollection.

“Still, saves you the job of separating his head from his shoulders, eh, Richard?” Accompanied by an airy waft of chicken thigh.

“Indeed. But not the problem of the head still firmly attached to the body of his wife.”

“No. Suppose not. Seeing as she hasn’t anyone left to support in spite of you though, you might as well just dispatch her to a nunnery. Best one in the middle of nowhere though. Say a lake, perhaps. Easy woman to underestimate, Countess of Richmond. Looks so breakable. Beaufort to the core though.”

The fire crackled in the silence.

Francis leaned forwards off the settle to better address the upright figure on the other side of the room.

“Richard? You can’t be considering any other punishment?”

The figure turned.

For a moment, Richard’s eyes were hard, roused against the questioning of his judgement, be it hypothetical or otherwise. Then the line between his brows softened marginally. On his exhale he replied, “No. No, not seriously. Though I confess I can feel little regard for the frailty of her sex when she aims so towards destruction.”

His in particular, but by no means alone. Thousands of others had been destroyed by her calculated dynastic designs. Most of them innocents. Were his nephews amongst them? The question haunted him. As King, still, there were many that did.

Moving towards the side table, Richard poured himself a glass of burgundy.

“I have had reports of Scots massing along the border.”

“Shit,” thought Francis, “Margaret Beaufort can’t compare to that.”

Jocky Howard had even ceased eating. They’d all faced a Scottish campaign before. It had been difficult and brutal and raw. There had been little joy in that venture, despite their victory. And to be forced to it again? Now, especially, when the realm needed calm. Two rebellions in two years, a Scottish horde at the border, the death of the only heir…. those signs would move men more sensible than most. Luckily, Francis thought, he’d always been obtuse. But by God if Richard had luck if was only ever bad.

Said misfortunate soul continued to regard him as steadily as ever over the rim of his wine glass though.

“We will discuss it in the morning at King’s council. I wanted you two to know earlier. I will need you to fight them, after all. Think on what measures will be most useful. Remember that Tudor has emptied our coin purse.” He drained his glass. Setting it down he approached Jocky, still slouched behind the large desk that dominated the room but picking gloomily now at the remains of the chicken carcass.

“Eat up, Jock. You’ll need your strength. Westminster administrators are ferocious devils. You’ll be glad to get to the border.” It was a kind, if unsuccessful, attempt at humour. Jocky's grin in reply was owed to its intent, not wit.

“Now, you’ll both excuse me, I must talk with the Queen.”

As he made his way to the door, Francis caught Richard’s eyes. For the first time in many days, even including this conversation, Francis caught a hint of disquiet in his gaze. Richard gave a brisk nod towards him, allowing his head to pause, momentarily, down. When he raised it, Francis saw the stern collection of his countenance had once more reasserted itself.

The door opened. He left.

 

---

 

Westminster, late February 1486

 

The room whirled about once more, the furniture changing places between the flutterings of Anne’s eyelids. Then there it was: the familiar dip in her stomach and rise in her throat. The remains of breakfast landed into the mercifully empty chamber pot. It wasn’t much. Anne’s appetite had shrunk in recent months. She knew she needed to eat more; she had to maintain her always-fragile strength. But sometimes it was hard. 

Soon new rumours about her health would begin to circulate. Anne had missed the meeting of King’s council that morning. Lord alone knows what they had decided without her there. Though technically they couldn’t decide, only discuss and propose. It remained the King’s prerogative to enact their suggestions as he saw fit. In his absence that right had been granted to her. So technically it was a Queen’s council, albeit today a Queen-less one.

No matter. That was the nature of regular advisory councils - there always soon came another, for good or ill. Dickon had often said the Council of North had to met thrice on any proposal, once to agree, once to disagree and once to come to an equivocal conclusion. She had thought he had meant it in jest, over exaggerating from his aversion to prevarication. There was more than a little truth in his quip though. She understood that now.

Stretching her feet towards the platform on which stood the bed, Anne wondered when in her mind he had become Dickon again. Unable to place that moment, she turned her thoughts around: when had he first stopped being Dickon? That was hard too. He had become King Richard but remained so. For a time at least. The change had probably occurred slowly, during that dark period after they were no longer parents, when she no longer felt a wife, or felt beloved, felt Dickon no longer in the man she seldom saw.

In truth though, by then she had stopped looking. Ned had gone. In his place a veil had hung across her sight, the world filtering through darker. And eventually, she had just stopped trying to see out.

Yet time had lifted her mourning veil. It still ached when she thought of Ned. But when she pictured him now she saw him in sunlight, atop his faithful pony, Gareth, curls gleaming. Not in that dark chapel were he had last been placed.

Time had combined with work to help to draw that picture. A kingdom doesn’t run itself.

“Please Anne, I need you to do this. I need you.”  

Dickon’s words had frequently echoed in her ears the last few months: when the lords spiritual and temporal had questioned her judgement, sometimes even her authority, when there had been more dissenting voices than supportive ones in every council she attended. Anne considered that despite visiting a single battlefield she had fought many more wars. Fought and won. For necessity can drawn things out of one which comfort cannot.

The odd thing was that it wasn’t Dickon’s necessity that has done so. Not really - started the process certainly, but it had been her, Anne, who had needed to do the rest. To fully play her part, away from fathers and older sisters and husbands who might direct her otherwise. Not always wrongly, but not necessarily as she would choose to move herself. The burgeoning of her desire to lead hadn’t surprised her as much as the easy compulsion of others to follow. It was primarily women at first, her sisters-in-law, Duchess Cecily and Margaret of Burgundy providing earnest support and useful counsel. Then the men, barons and lords who had merely looked at her, began to look to her first. The clergy held out longer, they espoused the distrust of women regardless of whether one was Queen regnant. Yet eventually, when they realised she wasn’t Margaret of Anjou, or Elizabeth Woodville, or even Eve reborn, they offered her a grudging respect.

A grin crossed Anne’s face as she remembered Bishop Russell’s approval of her plans to improve the City merchant’s links with the Low Countries during their last meeting. Yes, she wore satins and silks and understood the wool trade - the two were not mutually exclusive.

With that in mind, Anne forced herself to rise above her lethargy and summon her ladies. She has achieved too much for her husband to return and find her ill abed.

Nell, her favourite, wittiest, lady-in-waiting brought her favourite selection of gowns for her to choose from. Amongst their riot of colour was a specific shade of teal, almost precisely between green and blue. She had worn it that night at Nottingham, her and Dickon’s last meeting. Then she had been reluctant to finally cast off the blue of mourning and he had been preoccupied by a new, different threat to their safety. It was still a beautiful shade. But not appropriate for spring. Nell laughed as she scrunched up her face to eschew the choice. Anne reached instead for her newest silk. Pink, but shot through with orange, the colours blending, shifting as the cloth moved. The iridescent will match the sunshine of the coming spring.

Later, when the King and Queen meet on the stairs of the Palace of Westminster the courtiers remark amongst themselves how shockingly well the Queen looks for one ill that morning. And what a stunning gown, of such exquisite colour and cut. The King’s words to his consort are as gracious as they ought to be. So the court is altogether satisfied. Even if they miss the entirely separate conversation between the pair, spoken by eyes and hands.

They can’t miss the King’s grip of his wife’s hand as they leave the feast though, nor how early their departure is. But he has just returned victorious from war so it’s hardly unexpected.

Still.

It’s a little inappropriate.

They don’t know of the slow circles his thumb is tracing on the sensitive skin of Anne’s palm. They can’t know of the fast beating of two hearts beneath two composed, royal visages. And when the door of the Queen’s apartments is shut firmly neither servants nor courtiers, will witness what passes between the two.

For the first time in five months the pair are together, utterly alone.

  

 

---

  

Just as the door shut Anne became aware, suddenly, of her heart’s beating. She felt it thumping through her chest; her cheeks seemed to throb with heat at the blood pulsing through them, she felt almost unsteady, both the fire and the fireplace surrounding it, only a matter of feet away, seemed to flicker and shift.

Her hand was still held within Dickon’s.  Anne raised her eyes to his face, in surprise almost at her sudden sensitivity to everything. One of the windowpanes was open, and even though it was on the far side of the room, the evening breeze only whispering through, she could swore she could feel its fingers on the back of her neck.

Yet, in contrast to how Anne was sure she must look, Dickon looked composed.

And unaware. Remarkably unaware. Anne felt her annoyance spread, only intensified by the uncertainty of its source. Was it Dickon? His blindness to the turbulence of her sensations? Or herself, for succumbing to them in the first place?

Anne drew her hand from his.  She moved towards the fire, breathing deeply but stealthily until the flames’ dance mercifully became steadier.

Dickon, Richard, the King’s voice came from behind, “You know, I’d thought they’d might have been more pleased to see me back from the frozen North, but I got the impression all my mighty Southern nobles wished I’d stayed there. You must have pleased them, Anne.”

The casual tone grated. As if all she’d done was flutter her lashes and they had fawned at her feet, pleased with her. Anne’s fingers clenched a little but she hid the sign of her frustration within the folds of her gown, she felt uncomfortable clad in its cheerful colours now. The ease of their public reunion felt years ago, not hours, it felt as it were another relic of another life, lived in times past and miles away.  But then the both of them had always been able to maintain a façade; all of their scars were turned inward. They showed them in private, and then only occasionally when the wounds weeped or their scarred edges were torn asunder.

So Anne kept her voice level as she replied, unwilling to betray more emotion than her rebellious body had already. She could match Dickon’s detachment with her own; they could be partners in that at least.

“I’m sorry you felt neglected. If I pleased them it was quite by accident. I aimed to do good for the realm, as you asked me to when you gave me the governance in your stead. I am sure your attention will be demanded in full tomorrow. I would appreciate it though if, on your return, you didn’t upset them immediately. You see we have all grown rather used to the boredom of peacetime here and revolts are such a nuisance to the accounts.”

Anne’s eyes never left the flames as she spoke, nor did Richard’s leave her. They hadn’t since they’d entered the room. But her back was turned and she hadn’t seen.

Nonetheless she heard his sigh, the pad of his footsteps too as he approached. Pausing a little distance behind her, his voice was much lower when he spoke again, “Forgive me, Anne. That was brusque. Too much time amongst soldiers, one loses one’s manners. T’is the biggest peril of campaigning.” He gave another soft sigh though it may, formerly, have been a laugh.

“I meant only to say that I was proud of you, that you were so respected. I didn’t mean that I felt slighted or neglected or anything like that. Not at all, there are far, far worse things than to be overlooked amongst the appreciation of one’s wife. Perhaps I didn’t express myself well.”

He paused again, only Anne still hadn’t moved.

She heard him take another step closer.

His swallow was audible in the stillness of the chamber, a stillness and silence that grew until he admitted, almost shyly, if Anne could believe he was still capable of shyness, “I fear I am nervous.”

Her laugh was quiet but brittle in reply. 

“You are never nervous.”

“Not true.”

“It is. You told me so. Once, at Middleham, before you first left for court.”

“Then I lied. For I was nervous then. But I decided to make it a habit not to appear so.”

“Then I suppose you made a habit of lying too.”

“I suppose I did. But only if you count lying and dissimulation as one and the same.”

“And do you? Count them equally a sin?”

“No. The first is a sin. The second sometimes a necessity.”

Anne’s voice barely rose above the crackles of the fire, “a necessary sin.”

Her niece Elizabeth’s face formed itself in her mind. She had wed the Earl of Arundel’s son at Michaelmas, heir to an old, respectable title, not a rich one though richer now. She had not returned to court since the marriage so perhaps their union was happy. Anne hoped it was, sincerely. She had seen her niece’s eyes before the bedding ceremony, those of a maid still. Besides, the girl was young: what fault there was, was unlikely to have been all hers.

“Anne,” her name on his exhale. How often had she heard that?

“Anne, I don’t wish to discuss sin with you.” She couldn’t help but think that convenient. He had moved right behind her, up to her shoulder, a slice of space just remaining between her and his velvet-clad chest.

“Anne, look at me. Please.” She would have resisted if it hadn’t been for the tenderness of his final request. So she lifted her eyes, and only her eyes, to meet his. 

He murmured, “We can not go on like this.”

“No.” That much was clear to both of them.

“Do you remember our last conversation?” His voice had barely risen at all.

His gaze was fixed on her. She had almost forgotten the intensity of Dickon’s presence. Of all the York brothers he had always had the greatest capacity for focus. Such an overlooked quality, it had, however, made him the most powerful man after the King in his youth. Then afterwards brought him a crown. And now it was all focussed on her. She had forgotten what it felt like, the burn of his attention.

“I remember it less as a conversation and more as an argument.”

“That was certainly how it ended.”

Anne couldn’t help the blush spreading over her cheeks. For technically that wasn’t how it ended; how they stopped speaking, yes. But it had ended, as far as she remembered, in sweat and rumpled sheets and their bodies tangled together in the same bruising ways their words had. Infinitely more satisfying though, as their bodies reached conclusions their words couldn’t find for each other. As she remembered, it had ended properly when she had woken to find the empty hollow of the pillow where his head had lain, his imprint still warm in the bed but he himself already gone.

“You left early as I recall.”

“You don’t like good-byes. You told me. When I left for court, the first time. ‘I don’t like good-bye. This isn’t good at all.’ Those were your exact words.”

Dickon reached out a hand and traced her blush from the apple of her cheek up to the corner her eye then down again, to her ear. Smoothing out the always-errant strands of hair she had above her ears, he smiled a little, for she hadn’t drawn away and fighting the Scots had once more had taught him the value of small victories. One only needs to accumulate enough of them.

Anne felt the callouses of his fingertips, the roughness of his palm, started to feel the thumping of her heart once more. Ruthlessly she tried to restrain her emotions.

Turning, she looked around, searching for a subject less personal, less difficult. She found one in the papers lying on the side table, moving quickly, she grasped them, “You’ll need to see the proposals for Council. There are some here. Secretary Dowlins was preparing them for you. Special copies. But these should do. If you want to have a look, at a few of our, I mean, really, my, ideas…”

She trailed off in confusion, realising belatedly that trying to escape Dickon’s focus, once it was intent, always proved feeble.

“Anne, I hold your ideas in especial regard but I really couldn’t care less about councils right now,” he stalked towards her from the fireplace, “or Secretary Dowlin’s special copies, or any other benighted form of bureaucracy.”

Facing the table, hands on the sheaves of parchment, Anne asserted to them more than the man once more behind her that, “Administration is important.”

He grasped her by the shoulders, turning her firmly but gently to face him, “We are important. Everything else can wait.”

He stepped back, releasing her. Anne stayed where she was, only lowering her gaze to regard him from underneath her lashes, watching as he raked a hand through his curls, longer than when she’d seen him last, but always thick and maintaining a glossy sheen that, in happier times when she used to wind them round her fingers, she had teased him she was jealous of.

“I told you once, in Nottingham, before I left, that you expected too much of me. That I couldn’t always be kind and warm and loving. That sometimes I’d be cold and difficult and hard to understand.”

“I remember,” said Anne.

“But do you remember what you said after, in reply?” He wasn’t looking at her, but around the room in agitation, the emotions whose neat containment had irritated Anne earlier causing his body to twist and move with nervous energy.

“You said you didn’t expect that. You only expected me to be there.”

“I did.” Anne paused then, deciding to be hung for a sheep as a lamb, added “and I meant it.”

“I didn’t understand you. I didn’t understand why you were angry. That’s what made me angry. Because, you see, I thought I was, I thought we understood each other as we always had.”

“How could you?” burst from Anne, almost without her volition and Dickon’s gaze finally locked once more with hers and his body stilled as he replied, steadily, “Because I had to believe it. I couldn’t lose that as well.”

He sighed, looking down at his feet, shrugging his shoulders.

“I knew we weren’t as we’d been, but I still couldn’t admit to myself how, how far apart we were. How far we’d grown apart when we’d always grown together. Do you see? I knew but refused to believe it. So I didn’t have to lose you, our marriage, as I had my honour to my niece,” he glanced up quickly then went on, “my nephews to what God alone knows, my peace to any upstart who fancied their chances, and my son...” he stuttered on the word before clenching his fists and continuing “our boy to fever.”

Anne could only looked at him.

And so in the silence he went on, but softer as if his energy were draining away like rain after a downpour, “I was angry still, I think, when I went North. Probably the best place for it, a battlefield. Productive at least.”

Anne bit her lip at the sudden thought of what rash action that anger could have led to, what he might have done to himself in dangerous, subdued rage.

“So I won reasonably quickly. But by God, I felt myself slipping, Anne.” He laughed harshly, finishing, “slipping, but no idea to where!”

He seemed lost, on his own for a moment or two, the creases in his brow deepening, before melting smooth. She saw his effort to draw himself into brightness, “but we had to stop at Middleham, on the way home. And Francis had had enough of me by then. Didn’t quite behave in the appropriate manner of a vassal to his king. Though he made his point well enough.”

He rubbed his elbow, and Anne saw him again as the boy he had been, the unsure, littlest brother of golden knights, who had seen in her more than just the baby playmate of a prettier sister. It had been so long since she’d seen the connection between boy and man that it caught her breath. He must have noticed for he’d drawn closer, catching her hand and holding it against his chest in a mirror of the pose they’d held when they’d entered this room.

He’d felt like a stranger then.

The look in his eyes was familiar now, dark and warm with the softness of a gentle humour long dormant.

“So…” he sighed, the sound a real laugh now that she couldn’t help but join, though hers was more of a shiver. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek though she couldn’t remember crying. He held her face with one hand, her fingers with the other and they were so close she could count his eyelashes.

“I’m sorry,” he said

“I didn’t think king’s had to be sorry,” she replied and closed her eyes.

“Your king does,” he pressed his forehead to hers and they breathed the same air.

Neither said anymore.

Then Anne reached up to take his hand, tangled within the strands of her loosely braided hair. She placed it between them, on the reason for her nausea that morning, the reason for the new cut of her new gown, the result of the accord their bodies found when their minds could not. 

Dickon brought her hand to his lips, the colour of his eyes deeper than ever.

Before kissing her he murmured, “We’ll be together now in all things.”

Afterwards, Anne places her finger on the pulse of his throat, feels its beat match the feeling in her chest.

“Well then,” she says. And they go to bed.

 

Notes:

Woohooo!! Last one and finally finished. This was is the longest - probably why it was the hardest to do.... I hope you enjoy it