The Lamentations of Poor Anne
By HDKingsbury
© July 2005

Category: Books Shakespeare Richard III

Genre: General/Drama

Summary: March 1485. Anne Neville, wife and Queen Consort of King Richard III is dying. She looks back over her life, and laments those she has loved and who are no longer alive. But more than that, she laments the dire fate she fears may be awaiting her husband.

Author's Notes: This is a one-shot piece, and is my first attempt at a story with a serious tone. Constructive criticism is welcomed. And if you find it confusing with so many Edwards, don't blame me! I'm only the author; I didn't name them! This story is sympathetic to Richard, as the author firmly believes that, regardless of any monetary and/or political gain that came with it, the marriage of Anne and Richard was, deep down, a love match.

Rating: K+ (or a mild PG) for non-graphic references to death and dying.

Winter has loosened its grip on the land, and the first signs of spring have arrived. Yet in spite of the warmth in this room, with its cheery, blazing fire, I feel only cold. Even the furs they lay across my lap do nothing to warm the ice that seems to fill my body. Today has been a good day for me, though my strength slowly seeps away. Another spasm of coughing racks my body. I hold a linen kerchief to my mouth, and when I take it away, I see flecks of fresh red blood. I fear that I shall not live to see my twenty-ninth year. Indeed, I suspect I shall not live to see the full bloom of spring, and I grieve. Not for myself do I grieve, but for my beloved lord and husband, Richard.

He comes to me as often as the affairs of state allow. We both know that my time on earth will soon be at an end, and so we play a little game. Richard compliments me, tells me I am looking better, that my color has surely improved. I, in turn, pretend to believe him. We both know it is only a game, though; in his eyes, I can see him already mourning the loss of me. I know that if he could, he would gladly leave matters to his ministers, to stay longer at my side. But my Richard is a man of great personal honor, and is bound to a cause greater than that of comforting a poor woman. His duty is to his crown and his country; I would not ask anything less of him.

The burdens of kingship weigh heavily upon my Dickon. He tries to mask them from me, offering me words of optimism, but I can see the pain and suffering in his eyes. No matter how hard he may try, he cannot conceal these things from me. I know him too well, my Richard, my sweet Dickon. He has not yet reached his thirty-third year, yet these days he looks nearly a score older. His dark hair is shot with gray; the lines on his face are deeper, his looks more ragged.

My ladies-in-waiting do their best to see to my every comfort, and take great pains to shield me from the idle tongues at court. But I hear the tales that are told in hushed whispers when no one thinks I can hear them, vicious lies that Richard is planning to set me aside, to divorce me so that he might marry his niece. Fools! Even if such were true, there would be no need to divorce me, when my end is so near in sight.

If only Richard's brother Edward had lived to enjoy a long reign. If only he had ruled with his head instead of his heart. If only he had lived to a ripe, old age, and left my Richard out of the schemings of the court. If only...

But Edward met an untimely death, forcing Richard to do things he never would have wished to do. I have let my husband know that I am always here to listen, assured him that he can confide safely in me, that no matter what he may say, I will never repeat it. But some secrets he keeps walled deep within his own heart, and will share their burden with no one, not even his wife.

There was a time once when I tried to get him to speak to me about his nephews, the bastard offspring of his brother and that she-wolf, Elizabeth Woodville. I, too, have heard the rumors of the boys' mysterious disappearance. Some whisper that Richard had them killed, to remove them as potential rivals to his throne. Others speak in soft voices, saying that they were secreted out of the country, removed to a place of safe keeping. Edward had wanted Richard as the boys' protector, a duty and obligation my husband accepted with great seriousness. But is has been some long time since anyone has seen them, and I, too, have pondered their fate. Whatever it is that Richard has done, I know that it was not done lightly. I want him to know that I shall always be there for him, giving my support. Yet when I speak to him of these matters, his eyes fill with sadness as he tells me not to worry myself, that the boys are now safe, that none can do them harm.

ooooo

Birds perch outside my window, warbling their spring songs, while I sit here in my chambers, watching the fire as it crackles brightly. The cold envelopes me once again, and I begin to cough. My ladies care tenderly for me, bringing me a warm herbal infusion to drink, to ease my cough. I thank them, and sip the liquid; the heat from the cup briefly warming my hands while the liquid warms me inside. Tears fill my eyes as I realize my time is drawing nigh, that I shall soon be parted from him whom I love best of all.

So, instead, I try to recall those happier days when Richard and I lived at Middleham, and mourn that we shall see them no more. I have often heard Dickon speak of those days as having been the happiest he has ever known. And thoughts of Middleham bring with them memories of our beautiful son, Edward, who taken from us while still so young. As I watch the flames in the fireplace licking the logs, I think back on the joy my husband and I both shared when our son was born. The realization that he would be our only child, that I would be unable to bear Richard any more children, made that sweet babe all the more precious to us.

But is seems we were never meant to know joy for very long. A sudden illness took our child from us, just as his life was spreading out before him. Our Edward is gone, leaving Richard without a son and heir. To the world, my husband put forth the face of a grieving yet sturdy father, a man saddened but continuing with those duties that could wait for no man's grief. But when we were alone, he hid nothing. We wept in each other's arms, offering one another what solace and comfort we could. Sometimes, Richard would bring his prayer book, and we would recite the verses together, reassured by the thought that dear, sweet Edward was with his Heavenly Father, and that the three of us would be one day reunited. It seems now that I shall be joining little Edward sooner than I thought. It is not to for us to question God's will, but to gracefully accept it. Perhaps it is wrong to do so, but I cannot help but wish our lives could have remained as they were in those warm, sunny days at Middleham, the three of us so happy, away from the cold corruption of London and the court...

ooooo

I never expected to marry for love. That is a luxury for the lower classes, not for a daughter of the powerful Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, called The Kingmaker. I was raised to marry for the wealth and position, for the advancement and betterment of the Neville family. Personal feelings had no part in such decisions, none of which were of my making. And so it was that, while I was but a child of fourteen, my father arranged for me to marry Edouard, Prince of Wales and heir to the House of Lancaster, a man I barely knew. It was supposed to be a great match, as my father had turned his allegiance from York to Lancaster. My marriage was to put a Neville on the throne of England.

But Fortuna did not smile upon my father or his plans, and within a year I found myself both fatherless and a widow, made a ward of my sister Isabel's avaricious husband, George, Duke of Clarence and the king's younger brother. George wanted to ensure that I did not re-marry and planned that I should enter a convent, so that he would have control not only my sister's share of our mother's fortune, but my own as well.

How could I have known that, after taking flight to escape the machinations of George Clarence, I would be found, like a maiden in a troubadour's song, by my own heroic knight? How could I have known that it would be Richard Gloucester, my childhood playmate Dickon, who would find me, and would insist before his brother the king that the two of us should wed? And so in the end, a Neville sits on the throne after all. Are you proud of me, Father?

Oh, cursed be those with vile, wagging tongues of the court, for in their viciousness they only show how little they know! They are plotters and schemers, circling 'round my Richard like vultures over the carcass of a dying animal. How I long to be at my husband's side, to show the world that I am steadfast in the support of him. May God forgive the them, for I fear that I cannot.

ooooo

Dearest Richard, when I am gone, marry yourself a foreign princess who is young and healthy, who will bring with her strong alliances and who will give you healthy sons that will ensure the continuance of the House of York. Know that I will bless this union, because no matter how kindly you may look upon your new princess, I know in my heart of hearts that, even with my passing, our love will neither die nor wither away. You shall always be mine. And when the day comes that you are called from this earthly plane, may that be many years to come, know that I shall be waiting for you.

It is time now that I prepare myself for the end. I am not afraid, and pray not for myself, but for Richard.

I ask you, O most gentle Christ Jesus, by all these things, to keep thy servant King Richard, and defend him from all evil and from his evil enemy, and from all danger, present, past and to come, and free him from all the tribulation, griefs and anguishes which he faces, and deign to console him by thy descent into hell, by thy resurrection, by thy visiting and consoling thy disciples, by thy most wonderful ascension, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and paraclete, by thy coming in the day of judgment. In your name, I, Queen Anne, pray. Amen.

Afterword and Author's Notes: On March 16, 1485, Queen Anne died and was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. Five months later, on August 22, her husband Richard died on the field of battle, England's last Plantagenet king.

The prayer used at the end of the story is taken from Richard III's Book of Hours, Lambeth Palace MS 474. (Yes, I actually have my own copy of it) I have modified this portion slightly for Anne's use.

Loyaultie me lie.
HDK