The Queen and the Countess

by Anne O'Brien

Genres: Friendship; Medieval

Synopsis

'Anne O'Brien crosses swathes of time seamlessly.' CAROL MCGRATH

KEEP THY FRIENDS CLOSE,
THY ENEMIES CLOSER...

England 1450s

Queen Margaret knows she must protect the crown - and her son Prince Edward's claim to it - at all costs. With her husband, King Henry, increasingly frail, it is up to Margaret to fight for their inheritance. And as the Wars of the Roses rage on, her enemies and their wives lurk close, threatening to unravel everything she is trying to protect.

Anne, Countess of Warwick has long striven to be a loyal and accomplished wife to the Earl of Warwick. But when she develops an unlikely alliance with the Lancastrian Queen Margaret, her husband's adversary, she wonders how much power now lies in her hands to determine the course of history.

Crossing enemy lines, the pair strike up a thorny friendship - yet in the midst of treachery and the turmoil of battle, can the two women trust each other?

Or is it only a matter of time before war drives a sword between them...

Release date: February 27, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

I really did not wish to be here, and yet there was a terrible fascination about it all. There was the trumpet-blast, which meant that they must at last be approaching. Thank the Blessed Virgin; it had taken so long, but now the culmination of this inconceivable ceremony was in sight. Despite the sun it was winter-cold, with a touch of frost still in the air. I flinched. My heavy veils did not muffle the screeching when a young lad, standing on the step above me, was trying to hold a tune on his pipe. It was stridently off-key but did not stop the singer at his side from bawling the words to this new ballad that had become the rage on the streets of London.

Love hath under-laid wrathful vengeance.Rejoice England! Our lords accorded be.

Rejoice indeed. Unfortunately, there was little rejoicing in my household.

I moved to escape the piping with no little difficulty. The steps leading into St Paul’s Cathedral were crowded with those come to watch and marvel. Duchess Cecily of York, my aunt by marriage, muttered at my side that she could think of better things to do with her time than push through a flea-ridden mob of ignorant Londoners.

Not long now. The increasing roar of the crowd heralded the approach. Cheering, shouts of acclamation. The people of London were enthusiastic and well mannered, despite the ale consumed so early in the day. Despite the clash of wills at St Albans when Englishman had fought against Englishman and had spilt blood. Was that all now over, the hostility, the death and desire to kill? I should have been rejoicing like the tuneless singer, but there was a sharp element of doubt in my mind, like a grain of wheat in a shoe at harvest.

I glanced at the two women who stood on the step below me. Alice, Countess of Salisbury, my mother-in-law, shrouded in fur and displeasure. Beside her was Cecily, Duchess of York, my husband’s influential aunt, equally muffled in sable and transparent veiling. The thin smile directed up at me was as disbelieving as my own.

‘Here they come, at last,’ she murmured, ‘unless they have murdered each other on the road. If I had my way, I would have banished all knives and swords.’

‘The murder may come after the ceremony,’ I said.

‘Pray God this farce is all over soon,’ said Lady Alice, holding a square of linen to her nose as she sniffed. ‘I need a fire and a cup of warm wine.’

Here they walked in a stately show of power preceded by royal heralds, magnificent with tabards and trumpets, the spring sun brilliant on the red and blue and fine gilding. The highest born in the land followed behind in solemn procession. There was nothing warlike about this gathering. No warhorses, no armour or war-banners. No swords in evidence except those sheathed in jewel-studded leather. No taint of blood and death. All was an essay in sumptuous soft velvet and silk and damask, hats adorned with feathers, light glinting on the royal crowns. Here was a deliberate statement of quiet peace and unity.

I stepped sidewards again into a space, that I might, un-impeded, see the participants. There they walked, two by two, and what a shock it was for all to see. Who in their wildest dreams would have paired these couples together, after the horror of St Albans, when the Duke of York and his adherents had challenged King Henry’s right to choose his own ministers? And how successful that challenge had been in the streets and gardens of the town. The Duke of Somerset had died in those streets. So had Lord Clifford and the Percy Earl of Northumberland; Lancastrian magnates done to death, while the call to arms from every side had been A Warwick! A Warwick! My husband, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, the leader of the attack on the royal forces, revelled in the clash of arms while I remained at Warwick Castle and, as ever, worried that he might not return unscathed.

So much for my sleepless nights: my worst fears were not realised. Richard had been unharmed. King Henry had survived with nothing worse than a fleshy arrow-wound in the neck, while the Duke of York had proclaimed his loyalty to the wounded King and escorted him back to London, still King, but did not everyone know that his crown was now dependent on York’s good will? All I could do, a mere woman, a looker-on, was pray that the deaths at St Albans would bring them all to their senses.

‘Will this bring peace?’ I asked Duchess Cecily, who had followed me into the space.

‘I think not.’

Yet here they were, the combatants in that bloody battle, united in amity: Queen Margaret, leading the way with the Duke of York, hand in hand, as if the greatest of friends rather than the most vicious of enemies. Then my Neville father-in-law, the Earl of Salisbury, reluctant and saturnine, yoked with Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, heir of the dead Duke of Somerset at St Albans. Another pairing of fervid enemies who would spit on the other and run him through with a sword rather than offer aid in battle. How did their hands manage to clasp in such comfortable harmony? How did their expressions manage to express complacency rather than revulsion at what was being asked of them?

Then came the man I was here to see. To admire, for was that not the role of a wife? It was my silent role, for I rarely spoke of it. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, hand grasped in hand with Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, whom he despised as a hound despised a feral cat that haunted the hearth. Clad in dark velvet and sable fur, the Earl of Warwick was every inch the arrogant magnate who had made a name for himself in the recent clash of wills. I knew him well. The arrogance was no mere show, nor was the ambition that coated him from head to heel, just as surely as the rich fabric. Yes, I admired him, his stern features, his precisely carved lips that could equally smile or snarl. I might fear the extent of his ambition, but he was kind and generous to me.

How much gritting of teeth had it taken to get these protagonists to participate in this procession? How many sweating palms – for they had been forbidden to wear gloves. Skin must adhere to skin in friendship. Richard’s face was a picture of bland acceptance. Only the line between his brows might indicate his loathing of this façade of camaraderie.

And then came the King, the sixth Henry, who had ordered this procession to be made, walking alone in royal robes of velvet and ermine. Even with the crown on his head his slight figure was far less impressive than the allies of York, yet the cheering increased. Was he not King? He beamed on his subjects and raised his hand in acknowledgement, his rings glittering.

How could this seemingly frail man unite this disparate group?

‘The King is optimistic,’ I murmured.

‘The King is a fool if he thinks a Love Day will put all to rights,’ Duchess Cecily replied.

It had taken months of negotiation, but Henry had succeeded, or at least it seemed that he had, when he had negotiated for clemency, and for reparations for the death and destruction at St Albans. But could he keep them together? The air around us was alive with unspoken hostilities. Richard caught my eye as they climbed the steps, from where they would disappear into the sombre depths of the cathedral to give thanks for this ostentatious healing. A wry curve of his lips, the slightest twitch of his dark brows, his watchful eyes that today were as darkly black as a storm-cloud. It was impossible to know what he was thinking although he had been vocal enough when we had broken our fast together that morning.

‘It is a sham! A mockery! A travesty of all the hatred that bites below the surface, and everyone knows it.’ He had thrust aside the platter of meat and bread, scattering crumbs. ‘You know it, I know it. The only one who is still living in a dream of myth and legend is the King. I have no appetite for this.’

‘But you will still do it,’ I had observed, accepting the political necessity, despite Richard’s reluctance.

‘I will because I must, but God forgive me if my heart is not in it and my hand flinches from the clasp with that viper Exeter.’

He left me to my own repast, but not before planting a kiss on my coifed hair in passing. As the door closed behind him I could hear him growling about wolves in sheep’s clothing, but whether this referred to himself or his present partner, the Duke of Exeter, I did not know.

I was almost within touching distance of the King. How had he achieved the unachievable? It was assuredly not the work of Queen Margaret, who was now standing on the top step, turning to face the crowd with a wave of her free hand, clad in blue and white as if she were the Blessed Virgin herself. There was none of the celebration that could be read in Henry’s wide smile. The Queen was not in any mood to rejoice, despite the regal authority of her trailing velvet robes, her face turned to bestow recognition on the noisy crowd, her burnished hair carefully plaited to support her gilded coronet.

‘She detests all of this,’ Cecily observed. ‘You can see it in the set of her jaw, but I have to admire her self-control.’

‘Her loyalty to the King is without question,’ I agreed.

‘What choice does she have?’ Cecily asked with a fatalistic shrug. ‘It is the duty of every wife.’

‘Who’s to know where this will lead us? Will it bring us happiness or tragedy?’

My words, offered without too much thought, struck against my heart. Where would we all be led in the coming years? I thought that this Love Day would have no lasting blessings, and yet I hoped beyond hope that it might be so.

‘Best not to think about it,’ Countess Alice commented with another sniff.

They began to move again, in solemn, silent procession, into the dark reaches of the cathedral where they would give thanks for this return of peace, leaving me to consider what I had seen. Whatever happened in the future, I would have no place in it but to watch and follow the dictates of my husband. I knew the limits to my power and influence, as did most women. A wise woman could whisper in her husband’s ear but whether he listened would be beyond her control. Whatever my thoughts on the matter, Richard was planning that we should leave England, to go and live in the great fortress of Calais. In return for his valuable services to the Duke of York’s cause at the Battle of St Albans, Richard had been made Captain of Calais; an impressive honour, of which he was suitably aware.

And now, despite this parody of a Love Day, of King Henry still beaming with good will, the sun making of his golden crown a halo, there was no pretence of where the power might lie, or that Richard had his share of it. At York’s behest, it had been the Earl of Warwick who had carried the King’s great sword when they had escorted him back through the streets of London. A victory parade indeed.

I wondered what the Queen was thinking behind her regal façade. My own thoughts were interwoven with anxieties. Those who challenged the God-given power of the King could be accused of treason; traitors could come to sticky ends. All my life, as far back as I recalled, had been tied to the heraldic colours of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, for good or ill. Duchess Cecily must have seen the fear momentarily writ large in my face. She patted my arm.

‘All will be well, Anne. Our menfolk will not willingly reject the authority they have recently gained. King Henry will reward them with high office at Court, as is their right, and thus the days of the Duke of Somerset are numbered. You’ll soon have Warwick back under your feet, and be wishing him at war again. Is it not the same in all families such as ours?’

‘You can always send him to Calais on his own,’ Countess Alice suggested.

‘I think I would prefer to know what he is doing,’ I replied.

‘I have learned,’ Duchess Cecily observed, ‘that with the Neville and Plantagenet families, sometimes it is better not to know.’

We exchanged a smile, but it was a grim recognition. Did we three women not know that there was neither humour nor reconciliation in this Love Day? A dark and forbidding entity rumbled beneath the damask and fur and gold. At that moment an errant cloud covered the sun, dimming all the grandeur, as if in a terrible foreshadowing. An omen indeed, some would say.

I allowed my hand to rest limply in his. There was nothing of reconciliation in this hand-clasp, only a hard-won mockery of amity as I came to a halt on the top of the shallow steps, turning to look back at the procession following me. My impulse was to release my hand from that of the Duke of York, but that I must not do. He had a firm grip, and one I disliked, as much as I disliked him. I could imagine him gripping a sword in his battle for power. He was my enemy, but this was a show of unity and it must not be broken now, not after all of my lord Henry’s planning to heal the terrible wounds of the past year. Love Day forsooth! But I would play the part to the bitter end, kneeling before the altar in the cathedral in derisive penitence.

Those on the lower steps had also come to a halt, waiting for me to continue. All my enemies, and the enemies of my husband if he would actually acknowledge it, were here in one place. York, Salisbury, Warwick. Not only my enemies, but those of my son. I knew it as if it were written in blood. If they had their way, my son, Prince Edward, would never be offered the crown or the throne of England.

And then there was my husband, Henry, King of England, looking more than kingly on this festive occasion that was of his own making. There was even a confidence about him as he bowed his head to his subjects, who cheered and wished him well. A man of peace, of erudition, a man who had secured victory here against all the odds. There were no signs today of the cruel instability of his mind when he had recognised no one, not even me, his wife of a goodly number of years. He had not even registered the birth of his son until the mists finally passed from his inner sight. But today, in appearance at least, he was truly a king again. Had I not personally supervised his choice of vestments, insisting on the royal colours of blue and red with a thick edge of ermine? Had I not been present to ensure his grooming was fit for a king, his fair hair shining?

A cloud appeared to obscure the sun. I saw no omen, merely the threat of a deluge of rain, which might mar the King’s hard-earned grandeur, leaving him drenched like a half-drowned rat.

What I desired more than any one thing on this abominable day was that I had my son here with me, to show him to the people whom one day he would rule, but this was not the time. I knew when to bring him, Prince Edward, the hope of our reign, into the centre of this disgraceful show of power, and it was not in this procession. I would bide my time and make my own decision.

Behind me Salisbury cleared his throat in impatience. I must move on. We would give thanks for peace and unity. I looked over the faces once again, finally on the expression of the man at my side, the dark saturnine features much like those of a raptor with their sharp edges. I did not trust them, I did not trust him. York had an eye to the crown. He had royal blood in his veins from two royal sons of King Edward III, which would stoke his ambitions.

Could my lord Henry keep these raptors, this pack of wolves, at bay?

Perhaps not, but I could. I must. And with my help my lord Henry would prevail. I would never allow any attack against the inheritance of our son.

Over towards my left I could see the treacherous wives enjoying the achievements of their menfolk, the women of York, of Salisbury, of Warwick. I owed much to Duchess Cecily for her kindness to me in the early days of my marriage when conception was difficult, but gratitude could easily wear thin. As for Alice and Anne, they were coated with the same mire as their lords. Warwick’s wife caught my glance. She inclined her head but with no hint of any undue loyalty. Indeed, her stare was surprisingly judgemental. What did she see for her family? Power. A golden crown. I could see nothing but war. I turned and, still harnessed to York, I led the procession into the cathedral. I would indeed dedicate myself to the Blessed Virgin for this day of peace, but that did not mean that I had to believe that it would last beyond the week.

‘Come, my lady. Let us kneel and give thanks. Our lord the King has high hopes of his miracle of healing.’

I turned to look at York, whose eyes glinted with the triumph of the occasion, and managed a smile.

‘As do I.’

At last he released me, allowing me to wipe my hand surreptitiously down the luxurious nap of my skirt, flexing my fingers. Whatever happened, this vicious show of unity might fool many in the crowd that had witnessed it, even if it were all a disturbing falsehood. Like trying to sweeten the stench of a midden with a shower of rose petals.

Here they were, these allies of York, striding into the cathedral, as if treason had never been their plan. Here they were, prepared to kneel, heads bent, proclaiming their loyalty, while I kept my anger rigidly suppressed beneath a gracious expression. Henry was smiling, accepting, willing to grant York’s petition for forgiveness, whereas I knew well their ambitions, this group of over-powerful magnates. York desired above all to wield power, to remove our faithful Somerset from my lord Henry’s side. Henry must never accede to York’s control of government. The Duke of Somerset could be relied on, and I would stand beside him. It was a diabolical situation. I could only thank the Blessed Virgin that I had carried a son and heir for my lord the King.

Walking forward between the bright banks of candles ordered by my lord Henry to illuminate our glorious union, I knelt before the altar, troubled with the weight of what we might face. Until the day that Prince Edward was old enough to take power into his own hands, what was the role of the Queen in this troubled Court? Intercessor? Peacemaker? Intermediary? All of them feminine skills, advising the King so that he might make the right decisions. Instead, I would take Henry and his government firmly in hand. Henry needed no protector, no constable. Unless I took on that role.

As for York and his allies, they had made me an enemy, as they attempted to make Henry a worthless puppet, obedient to their desires. I would never forgive them for it. But perhaps I would have to do so. I would consider it when my temper was less heated. I wished that Henry would not smile so ingratiatingly at York, at Salisbury and at Warwick. Did he not know that he was smiling at men who would bring him down and strip him of his power?

I needed to know what my enemies were planning so that I might pre-empt them, but of course it was impossible to win the confidence of any one of them.

My attention was taken again by the little knot of women standing together in silent strength as their husbands nominally accepted the authority of royal power over them. I envied their friendship, their family alliance, their solid connection, the manner in which they bent their heads to speak softly with each other. A touch of a hand. A turn of the head. A smile, the meeting of eyes, even a frown and a hint of anxiety. I envied this close-knit community of well-born women. I had no one to speak with except my waiting women, but they could not be confidantes of the Queen of England, and that is what I needed.

Should I consider these women, appeal to them, one woman to another? Yet what would I achieve when they were wed to the enemy? There would hardly be a compassionate ear amongst them. I turned my gaze away from them, towards the cross and the crucified Christ, but my thoughts remained anchored in my uncomfortable isolation. Would it not be useful to know what was being said in those households, what future plans were being made? Were the allies of York even now, when they had been thoroughly subjugated, contemplating another grasp of royal power, to imprison Henry or to even do him to death? I could never discover that. Or could I? From a woman in those households it might be that I could discover news of inestimable value.

Not from Cecily, Duchess of York, despite her kindness to me. She was too loyal to York and too politically astute to serve my purpose. Nor Alice, Countess of Salisbury, a woman with whom I was little acquainted.

My eye fell once more on the tallest, the youngest, Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick, enveloped in costly fur, her veils intricately wired. She might be a little older than I, but not by more than a handful of years. She had her own young family. An interesting woman, self-contained, quietly spoken, confident in her position in society. Perhaps she would be a confidante, or, more importantly, an unsuspecting informant. That is what I needed. An ear in the enemy camp, even if a female one. Did not a woman know what went on in her own household?

I needed a campaign of my own, and one of which my lord Henry had no knowledge, for he would assuredly denounce my lack of honesty. I no longer cared for honesty. This was a battle for the survival of the House of Lancaster.

My marriage had been negotiated when I was eight years old. I was not informed of this impending alliance, but overheard the discussion, listening at doors as any child of eight years might do when she escaped the cleric who was teaching her to read. My opinions, my desires, my attractiveness to my future husband, or him to me, were all irrelevant, as they were to all daughters of noble families. My mother and father were planning for the future. My father, Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and my mother, Isabel Despenser, both with powerful names, sought suitable connections for their Beauchamp children.

‘The Nevilles are interested,’ my father stated behind the closed door, probably raising a cup of red wine to toast the success of the coming negotiation.

‘And they have enough Beaufort royal blood in their veins to be attractive to us.’

My mother had her own smattering of royal blood, as she often told me. It meant nothing to me.

‘Then let it be so,’ my father agreed. ‘Anne and my heir Henry will wed two of the Neville children. Richard and Cecily.’

And that was my marriage, and that of my brother Henry, agreed upon. I would have no inheritance other than my dower. That much I did know.

‘It will be a good marriage for Richard Neville,’ my mother observed. ‘If his father had not wed the daughter and only heir of an earl, and thus become Earl of Salisbury through her claim, the Neville sons would be no more than mere north-county knights. Salisbury will be looking for a wife from a formidable family for his son.’

So his name was Richard Neville. I did not know him.

‘He is only six years old,’ my father said. ‘A marriage in name only, of course.’

I would not leave home. Not yet. I made a rapid departure on hearing my father’s footsteps approaching the door.

What difference did this decision make to my childhood and my own anticipation of becoming a Neville bride, wed to a boy of whom I had no knowledge? None at all. Marriages in our families were arranged by signatures on a document. By negotiation and decisions over dowers and jointures. All was a matter of sought-after alliances, of money and power. Had it not always been so? One day we would meet, be wed, and would live together. I would carry the Neville heirs for the future. If I was fortunate there would be some affection between us.

Thus, my future was something to be accepted, not feared, certainly not worried over. The days of my childhood were no different now that I was an affianced bride. It might not even happen. So many affianced children never reached the church door together through the exigencies of death and disease and battle. It did not occupy my mind to any degree other than that one day with good fortune I would wed and go to live at Middleham Castle with Richard Neville.

I hoped that at least he would be amenable.

Thus I was not raised to consider that I might one day hold any attraction as a bride of some value. Unlike my great-great-grandmother Johane de Geneville, who had become through marriage the Countess of March and was a major heiress in her own right, I was never intended to be an heiress. A daughter of a second marriage for both my mother and father, I had four older half-sisters, as well as my full brother Henry who would inherit the Beauchamp titles and estates. As a younger daughter I was not raised to see myself as of vast importance even though I was part of a formidable household, my father holding court and military office throughout his life. Richard would never have expected that I bring him so much direct power or wealth, or even a title. My brother Henry became Earl of Warwick on our father’s death and soon had a daughter of his own.

But death brought rapid changes; the unexpected death of my brother Henry, and then, most unfortunately, Henry’s tiny daughter, left me, at twenty-one years, old enough, even as I mourned their loss, to see the importance of the repercussions of these deaths, as the one survivor and the Beauchamp heiress. Richard Neville had gained a jewel of great price in that eight-year-old child. Through me he inherited all my father’s lands and titles, and thus became Earl of Warwick. We were one of the most wealthy and powerful families in all England, and I a far more valuable wife than Richard had ever anticipated.

What of me? I regretted my brother’s death far more than I valued my stepping into his high-born shoes as Countess of Warwick in my own right. There was no ambition in me to share power, or direct policy. Was I not raised with a belief in loyalty and duty, as were all daughters? All I looked for was a family of my own, living in peace, with sons to carry on the inheritance, daughters to wed into attractive marriages, and a husband with whom I could build a friendship, and who would not find me an impossible wife to live with. Richard did not seem dissatisfied with me as a wife, nor was he averse to my company. How could he be, when with the Beauchamp deaths I had brought him the unexpected but highly valuable Earldom of Warwick? Valuable wives were worth their weight in gold coin and Richard wore the title with much dignity and self-esteem.

As a child, how could I have known that my brother’s death and thus my inheritance would set family against family? I should have known, and quickly learned the truth. When battles were fought on English soil, personal vendettas would play a major role in the spilling of blood.

I had no regrets about the marriage arranged for me. I would never have wanted any other fate than to be wife of Richard Neville. Not even when our future was turned upside down; not even when Richard became a landless outlaw, stripped of his lands and attainted for treason. Even when we disagreed, I was where I belonged. It was a treasure to be held close and protected.

My abilities soon proved to be considerable, well polished in my father’s household. I could manage my own affairs as a wife of a great magnate. I could oversee the keeping of accounts in the hands of my steward and the supplying of the major fortresses that we held with all the necessities for a life of luxury. Such skills came to my fingertips. This is what I had expected of my life, to manage the households of a powerful and wealthy magnate. I had never foreseen that he would become such a figure of authority, of charisma, of forceful competence in the government of England.

But I was not the political animal that Queen Margaret was. I had no role in the government of the kingdom, nor did I ever wish it. And yet there lived in me the strength of will of that great-great-grandmother Johane de Geneville, who had faced grief and loss and treason in her life, but had striven to see the restoration of her family’s fortunes. I determined to be a worthy successor to her as wife of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. Would I fight and struggle for legal recognition, as that distant Johane had done? I was no fearsome raptor. But I would do all in my power to protect my family. Perhaps I was not so different from our She-Wolf Queen after all.

Sometimes I yearned for a quiet life with my family. Richard’s ambitions to impose his will on critical matters of government were not mine; indeed, they often reduced me to despair, when the outcome might be decided on a battlefield, redolent of instant death or terrible mutilation. Living with such fears, I just wished that Richard was more often at home, in our castles at Warwick or at Middleham, and not involved in some distant campaign that did not involve me. Perhaps this Love Day meeting of enemies would be the first step on the road to my hopes being fulfilled.

How had I come to this situation, where covert threat and danger hemmed me in on every side? As with all women of royal birth, I had no choice in the matter.

‘A marriage has been arranged for you.’

My father, Duke René of Anjou, announced this in the wake of a royal courier, sent by the King of France to impart important news. It was no more than I would expect. A marriage to a man I did not know, but a man of considerable power.

I would be Queen of England.

‘I am gratified,’ I said. ‘I will be honoured to accept the role expected of me.’

My marriage to King Henry of England was simply a step in the ongoing lethal chess game between England and France. Both sides desired a peace settlement. How to achieve it? Henry sought a French bride and King Charles VII was not averse t