II. August 1469
Richard was near seventeen and Anne thirteen by the time nobody had to tell them marriage between them was now impossible, though several people did, anyway. Any hope that the ever worsening estrangement between Richard's brother the King and his cousin the Earl of Warwick would reverse itself, would end, was buried when Anne's father actually took his cousin and King prisoner, and executed two of the Queen's Woodville kin while he was at it, for no other reason than they were the Queen's father and brother.
A marriage had taken place between a Plantagenet prince and his Neville cousin that year, though. Richard's brother George allied with their cousin Warwick, openly defied Ned and wed Anne's sister Isabel. George made no secret about what he hoped for from this marriage, either, and it wasn't just Isabel's inheritance. He hoped the Kingmaker would make another King, would force Edward to abdicate in George's favour. Elizabeth Woodville had borne Edward daughters, but no son yet, so George was still his brother's heir, and determined to make the most of it.
It was, Richard thought, and years later cursed his lack of imagination, surely the worst thing that could ever happen to his family, to any of them. He did his best to rally men to help Ned and in the meantime clung to the hope that the man who raised him would surely not murder his brother, even though Warwick had the power to do so now.
Richard could have been at Warwick's side in Middleham right now, just like George, his cousin had made that clear. Ned had it made as clear that any marriage to Anne now would be a declaration for Warwick. That was a choice which was no choice at all. Anne was dear to him, and he's seen far more of his cousin of Warwick than he'd ever seen of the Duke of York, his dead father, felt more for him, too. But Ned was his sovereign and the person he loved most in the world. He had to keep faith with Ned.
In the end, the men he found to march with him to Middleham, along with virtually every peer of the realm, were enough to pressure Warwick into letting Edward go rather than openly make war. Richard should have been relieved, but now that the implicit threat to Ned's life was gone, all the thoughts he'd pushed aside when marching rose to the surface. There was no way Warwick would forgive him for this. And with George having chosen to marry Isabel, Edward's orders be dammed, Anne probably thought he was rejecting her, not just her father's rebellion.
She was nowhere in sight when he entered Middleham to, as he said, "escort his brother the King back to London". Isabel was, Francis was, the Countess of Warwick was, but no Anne. He gave Isabel a message for her, asked Anne to meet him at the little chapel off the great hall, and Isabel promised to deliver it but also said she didn't think Anne would come.
"I'm sorry about the Neville girl," Ned had said. "It would have been a good match, once upon a time. But I can't let our cousin get closer to the throne than he is already." He must have seen something in Richard's face, for he added, with a frown: "You're not in love with her, are you, Dickon?"
Was he? Truth be told, he hadn't thought of Anne precisely in those terms. Anne was Anne; he'd have to go back to his earliest childhood in Ludlow to remember a time when she hadn't been in his life, and he'd never thought there would be a time when she wasn't. He hadn't realised quite how much he wanted her to be until there had been so much bad blood between his brother and her father that he had to leave Middleham. Now he was back for what was probably the last time, even if by some miracle Warwick and Ned could maintain a frosty barbed truce from now on. If he didn't see her now, he might not for years to come. And he'd leave her with the idea that he hadn't cared at all. That they had never spoken of love didn't mean it wasn't there, he knew it was, even if he couldn't say what kind of love it was.
When Anne finally came, he'd almost given up hope. He'd tried to pray, for reconciliation, though that prayer had not been answered before, and then had understood he couldn't pray right now. He was too angry. With Warwick, with George, with Ned, even, and with himself. It made no sense, but there it was.
"Welcome home," Anne said, her face still in deep shadows until she came closer, and the candle light showed him she'd changed in the last few months. She'd still been more child than woman when he'd left. Or maybe it was he who'd changed, seeing what he hadn't been able to see before; he'd lain with women now.
"This is not my home anymore," Richard said, though it was, that was the worst of it. Where else? Not at Ned's court. He didn't despise Elizabeth Woodville the way his cousin Warwick did, who blamed her for everything Ned had ever denied him. Truth to tell, she was still a stranger to Richard, and they had yet to have a conversation about more than formalities. No, it was the court itself he didn't much like, everyone constantly trying to get more and better positions for themselves, and changing alliances along with fashions if they felt the wind blew differently. The North was better. He missed the North. But the North belonged to his Neville kin, and he'd just burned his bridges with them for good.
"Then what am I?" Anne asked. "If this is not your home anymore. Am I a stranger now, too?"
"Never that", he said, and stepped towards her to take her hands. He'd always been the smallest, not just the youngest of the men in his family, and she'd grown; they now almost saw eye to eye. Hers, usually a gold-flecked brown, were dark in candle light.
"What then?" she asked, and there was a sharpness to her tone that was new.
"Bella said she's with child already," Richard said, trying for levity, which was how Ned would have handled it. "So we're to be uncle and aunt to the same child, aren't we? In addition to cousins."
"Bella thinks that child should one day sit on the throne of England. Did she tell you that as well?" Anne asked, with a brittle cheer that barely hid that anger and grief he felt himself, and could not put away. "That's what our father made her think. That it is not treason to plot for this, because Ned has proven unworthy, so George should be king, and a Neville child after him. And either I am a traitor to tell you this, or I was already a traitor to listen and say nothing."
"Those were just dreams and foolishness, not treason," he said, to calm himself as much as her. "If your father truly wanted to make George a king, he would have..."
What? Killed Ned? But Richard had been afraid Warwick would do just that. He'd never said so out loud, but he'd been afraid it would happen, that it had already happened, every step of that damn march to the castle which could never be his home again.
"It will never happen,'" he ended abruptly.
"No," Anne said. "Because he doesn't really want George on the throne, no matter what Isabel thinks. He could win over George so easily, and that means anyone can if he flatters George enough. Father has no respect for him, none. But you know whom he'd put on the throne in place of Ned, Richard? Do you?"
She was wrong. She had to be. He thought about her father and the accusation in her father's eyes, earlier today, the thinly veiled rage when Warwick congratulated him, for Ned had rewarded Richard's "escort" by appointing him Lord Constable of England. No, his cousin hated him now, as much as Warwick hated Ned, surely. What love there'd been was gone.
The thought that there was still regard, and that it might express itself by wishing for yet more treason, that thought made him ill, and yet had some weird comfort to it, for it meant that Warwick had not feigned affection in their years together, had thought him more than a weapon just in case.
"If he really planned this, even for a moment, he never knew me at all", Richard whispered.
Her hands in his, which had been still until now, abruptly withdrew, but not in a gesture of rejection. She put them on his face, palms wide open, as if to hide it from herself.
"I know," she murmured. "I knew you'd come for your brother, that you'd be true to him. But I want - I want so many things. I want none of this to ever have happened. I want to be proud of my father, and not ashamed that he's committed treason now, I want to be loyal to my king, and not angry he's brought this strife to our family, I want you not to feel sorry for me. That's why you're here, is it not? Because you think I'm just like my sister, full of foolish dreams, and wanted you to do just what George did. Because you still think I'm a child. I'm not!"
Despite her words, there were tears in her voice now. He couldn't see her any longer. He just felt her fingers on his skin, neither cradling nor stroking; simply there, Anne's fingers, warm to the touch and surprisingly long. No, no longer a child.
"I think you're my friend," he said, finally finding words for what was in his heart ever since he'd left Warwick's household. "Still. And I wanted to tell you I'll be true to you, too. Even if we can't marry. I'll be your true friend, always."
For a moment longer, they remained like this; standing together, inches apart. Then her hands fell away.
"And nothing can break such a bond?" she asked sadly. "Oh Richard, we know better now."
And with that, she spun away and left. He did not see her again until they were all mounted and ready to depart Middleham. He'd seen the silent inquiry in Francis' eyes and shaken his head; what had been said between Anne and himself had been too private to share with anyone. He was saying goodbye to Francis, who remained Warwick's ward and thus had to reside with Richard's cousin, when Anne came running into the bailey, eyes swollen, hair unbound. He'd not seen her like this since she'd been a little girl; her mother had been far too concerned that the Kingmaker's daughters represent Neville glory to allow anything but a lady's elegance and seemliness in their appearances these recent years. He'd turned in his saddle, then swung his horse about so he could meet her halfway. Her face was flushed, and he could hear her shallow breathing; she must have run all the way from her chamber.
There was both too much and too little left to say, so neither of them spoke. He put his hand on her cheek, the way she'd done with him in the chapel, and for a moment, he wanted to kiss her. But that would have been a promise he wasn't yet able to keep, so he let her go again, and followed his brother.
