It is autumn. The leaves are falling and the winds are rising. I can move freely.
George thinks he has broken my spirit and he grows easy and comfortable with me. Isabel stops watching me like a hawk and instead puts on a pageant of sisterly affection. She must be the one to comb my hair, and fasten jewels around my neck. She orders me gowns cut from the same cloth as hers. She will not eat at the king's table unless I am beside her.
Richard has been away, in the north. I wonder if he has been arranging his marriage to Margaret Beaufort, if he has been riding with her over the low hills and dining at her table and smiling at her with dark eyes.
Tonight, he is back, and he sits beside his brother Edward as servants bring plate after plate of food, delicacies piled high on golden platters, dripping fat, oozing in a display of the wealth that our York king has brought us.
I am three seats down and opposite him. I steal glances when he sips from his goblet, when he talks to his brothers, but when I feel his eyes on me, I turn away.
His mother, the Duchess Cecily, sits across from Isabel and me. Her face is beautiful, frozen, waiting. I see that she will hold court here, at this table.
"Why is your sister not yet married?" she asks Isabel, as though I am not present.
Isabel pauses, a piece of bread halfway to her lips. The Duchess knows that I am a widow. She does this deliberately. "My sister is in mourning, Your Grace. A year has not yet passed."
The Duchess raises a cool eyebrow. "I am aware. But a girl of her age, in good health, should be married and bearing sons for her husband." She fixes her icy gaze on me. "How old are you, girl?"
"Sixteen, Your Grace." Richard is watching me. He has stopped eating and his gaze darts between his mother and me as if he waits for one of us to pounce.
"You are clearly a fine girl. More robust than your sister, I daresay. Bright complexion and thick hair– those are the signs of a good breeder. I was the same at your age, and I had three strong sons."
I cannot look at Richard. I cannot breathe. My cheeks burn. I wonder if I am supposed to thank her for this, or if I am meant to remain silent as a beast.
"It's a waste," she continues. "A waste of your good years and good blood. Edward!" She snaps her fingers and I am horrified to see the king look up like an obedient boy, to see the open amusement in the lovely face of his queen. "The Neville girl should be wed into the House of York. It was long her father's wish as well as mine."
He is patronizing. "Lady Anne was married, my lady mother, into Lancaster, at the express wish and command of her father."
"All the better. Let them see her making York heirs."
Richard is perfectly still.
The queen is smiling. "Or perhaps into my family. My brother Anthony is lately a widower." She catches my eye. "Or perhaps we ought to stop embarrassing the poor girl. Look at her, Edward. She's gone scarlet as a true Lancastrian rose."
The table laughs, but Richard does not join them, and neither does Isabel. I look at this beautiful queen and know that she still hates me, that my father beheaded her father and young brother, and that she would sooner see me dead than call me her kin.
—-
The next day, I go out riding. It is a fine day, and I am wearing a green riding habit that is soft and worn. The horse I take is unfamiliar to me, a steed brought from France, a gift from the French king to Edward. I am barely out of the stables when I feel him pulling, straining against my command, and the reins slip in my hands.
"You rascal," I murmur, tightening my grip. But he is a beast with no care or loyalty for me, and before I can stop him, he breaks into a gallop. Astride his back, I cling tightly. I realize that I cannot stop him, that he could throw me or race into the low-hanging trees and I am powerless. My hat flies off my head. My hair is streaming behind me.
The din of thundering hooves grows, and I see that there is another horse, racing alongside me, a big black hunter. And then Richard is there, switching his own reins to his left hand and taking mine with his right, blocking my horse with his own until both slow to a trot.
My horse is foaming at the mouth and I am panting. Richard looks relaxed, unperturbed, as though he does this every day.
"He ran away from me," I gasp. "I tried to stop him but I couldn't."
Richard shakes his head. He still hasn't relinquished my reins. "These French horses aren't as sensitive in the mouth as the ones you're used to. The fool who saddled him for you should have given him a heavier bit."
"I thought he might throw me."
"I thought the same. Let me take you back to the stable and swap him for one that's more gentle. I trust that you are out for a ride, and not on an errand?"
I nod.
"Climb down, then, and I'll tie him to the back of mine."
We stop and I slip from the horse's back. He lashes the horses together and then he is moving back in his saddle, and he reaches down and lifts me so that I sit in front of him, perched sideways with my legs drawn together.
I take the reins, thinking to hand them back to him, but then he is reaching around me so that his arms encircle me, and he folds his hands over mine.
Master and horse trust each other, know each other, I can tell. We begin to make our way back through the fields. And I am trying to think about anything other than the way that I am pressed against his chest, wrapped in his arms. If I turned my head my lips would graze his neck, his jaw. He smells of leather and spices. He is clean shaven. I want to touch him. I am touching him, but maddeningly, incidentally, as though he does not notice our closeness.
I lean back into him and I hear his breath catch and I think that he does notice.
"Thank you," I say. "This is not the first time I have found myself in your debt."
"There is no debt. It was lucky that I should happen upon you." I turn my head then, because I want him to see my skepticism, and he chuckles. "Lucky because I already wished to speak with you."
"I am a captive audience, Your Grace. You have taken my horse and thrown me across yours like a kidnapped maiden." I keep my voice light and teasing because my heart pounds.
"Dear lady, you have the reins. It is you who guides us back to the castle."
I twitch my fingers beneath his. "I am doing none of the work, and you are doing precisely all of it, but I thank you for giving me credit where none is due."
"Anne."
So he won't let me do it anymore: hide behind a jest.
"Yes?"
"I wish to talk to you about a proposal."
"What kind of proposal?"
"A marriage proposal."
It is as though all the air has been sucked from the world.
Foolish, stupid.
"Have you asked her yet?"
He is a long time in answering. "I– do not know your meaning."
I think that he has lost his wits. "Margaret Beaufort. Have you asked her to marry you?"
"Why would I ask her to marry me?"
"Because you wish to marry her!" I turn again to face him.
He is staring at me as though I am speaking tongues, and then his shoulders start to shake with laughter.
"Why do you laugh?" I demand. "For months, the entire court has said that you will marry Margaret Beaufort. You went to the north to be with her. You were gone. Isabel said–"
"Anne. I am not marrying Margaret Beaufort. The thought never crossed my mind."
"But you were away–"
"Inspecting troops at my brother's request. She certainly wasn't there. Edward says that all of those who support Henry Tudor have fled to Wales."
It is like the first breath after rising from the currents of the ocean.
"Are you relieved?" His gaze is alert, watching.
"I am… I am glad. Glad that you would not consider such a match."
"I have told you that I wish to speak of marriage."
I steel myself. "Of course. There is a York girl, then? A nobleman's daughter, or one of the queen's sisters?"
"You dear little fool," he murmurs. His hands tighten over mine.
"You call me a fool when you speak in riddles? Tell me then, Richard. Who do you wish to marry?"
"You," he says simply.
