Set Her on a Throne

by Jan Westcott

 

Part I
The Princess - 1470
 
Chapter 1

A small unusual sound wakened her.

"Isabel?" She stretched her toes to the bottom of the bunk, opened her eyes. "Ibby?"

It was barely dawn. The cabin was cold and dismal; she brushed her long tawny straight hair out of her eyes, and sat up, looking across the narrow space to her sister's bunk. Isabel's face was white and contorted; the gasp of a moan came again. Anne sat up straight. "Holy Mother," she whispered. "Ibby? The baby?" She glanced down at the pallet between the two bunks; it filled the narrow space, but it was empty, the narrow blanket tossed to one end. Anne threw aside her quilt; fully dressed except for her shoes, she kicked aside the pallet, taking up the blanket and tucking it around Isabel's swollen body.

"Lie still," she said. "Don't worry, Ibby; please don't cry! I'll go find Jane!"

She was putting on her shoes as she talked. She stumbled over the pallet, shoved it under her bunk with her foot, left the cabin door open and banging. On deck she saw the figure she sought, a plump comfortable figure, clinging to the rail. The narrow seas tossed and tossed endlessly in the gray skies; even the shore line looked gray and far, far away, inhospitable, the end of the world.

"Jane! Jane!" Anne cried; her unbound hair was streaming in the wind, her great dark eyes luminous.

"You've not your cloak! You'll catch cold! I was sick; I thought you were both asleep! Is it my lady Isabel? Is it, Anne?"

"Yes! Yes! I'll fetch Mother. You go to Ibby!"

"They won't let us land!"

"I could have guessed that," Anne said sharply.

They hastened across the unsteady deck, hand in hand. When they reached the bottom of the ladder, they could hear the banging door Anne had left open, like a staccato call; Jane caught it before it banged again. "My poor baby," she cried.

Anne went on; her mother's cabin was next. She didn't bother to knock, but flung open the door.

There were three women inside the tiny space, and the few boxes her mother had been able to pack in her haste were piled haphazard between the two tiers of bunks.

"It's Ibby," Anne cried. "Ibby's baby is coming, Mother! And Jane says they won't let us land; she's been up on deck!"

 

They wouldn't let her help; she was too young, they said, not quite fifteen. And there was no room in Isabel's tiny cabin. She sat down on a stool in her mother's cabin and began to brush her hair. There was cold water in a bowl, and she washed her face and hands. One of the few small chests lay open and she pawed through it for a simple cap; she found nothing she liked. Finally she crimped a plain one small, fastened it around the crown of her head, and let her hair stream down her back. She left the cabin.

In the main cabin her father and her brother-in-law were drinking wine; there was bread. Anne muttered a good morning. "May I have some? Where did it come from?" There'd been no wine aboard for two weeks.

Her father answered her. "Lord Wenlock wouldn't let us land, set foot on his precious bit of Calais, but he had the courtesy to send some wine. For Isabel, presumably. The rest of us could rot in hell."

Anne stuffed bread in her mouth. "It was your own choice, Father," she said. "Not mine. Nor Mother's. Nor Isabel's."

Her brother-in-law spluttered; his mouth had been full of wine.

"You touch me, and you'll get this wine right in the face, and spoil your already spotted suit," Anne said. "You can order poor Ibby around, but not me, George. And don't forget it." Calmly she continued to eat bread; she poured herself another cup of wine.

George, Duke of Clarence said to her father, ignoring her, "She ought to be thrashed."

"Why, George," Anne said. "I'm just like my father; he has set me a fine example."

Her father's lip twitched; her clothes were rumpled, but she was so slender and tall, her thick bronze hair like molasses. Her great dark eyes confronted the Duke with a glittering irony; she was proud and sure, and he was proud of her! If she had been a son! But no matter, he adored her. Why shouldn't he have spoiled her?

He put his arm around her, his handsome dark face and eyes like to hers. There was no doubt she had both his bearing and his forehead and eyes and the mobile sensuous mouth, expressive. If he were already a legend in his own time, she would be, too, he was sure. Isabel was sweet, and tractable; she was a perfect wife for George, Duke of Clarence. But —

"You have Ibby," Warwick said. "You let me have my Anne. For a while longer." He gave her a squeeze.

Anne said, "What are you going to do, Father? You have fled from England, you're not permitted to land in Calais. Now what is the King's greatest rebel going to do?" She sat down on a low stool and rested her chin in her hands. "What are we going to do?" There was no use saying she was seasick, homesick, and that she had no sympathy at all with him or this mad venture of his which had brought them to the brink of disaster. What great folly it was to take up arms and fight with the King! What madness and nonsense! He had jeopardized all his family, his brothers. Everyone connected with him was tarred with guilt. Guilt by association; guilt of family.

"You've made every Neville in England suspect," she said.

"No," he said. "They can look after themselves. I'm no man's servant, Anne, not even the King's. I made him myself, put him on his throne. By the Blessed Lady, I can take him down again." He glanced over at Clarence, the King's brother. He didn't want to say right in Clarence's face that he, Warwick, had the next heir to the throne of England in his pocket. He had him right here, married to his own daughter. It was a pity their plot had failed. That was all he regretted. The plot had failed, and instead of catching the King unaware, it had been the other way around. He and Clarence and their womenfolk had had to flee before the wrath of Edward, big towering friendly Edward, the King of England, who paid less and less attention to his stalwart proud kin.

In his mind's eye Warwick could see Edward's gay young court, jammed with the upstart Woodvilles, instead of his own swarming family, the Nevilles. Well, he would bring back the good days, when the Nevilles had told the young King what to do.

"I'm not afraid of Edward," he said. "Nor of the Woodvilles. I can deal with them, Anne."

"Why did you run away, then?" Anne asked.

"Don't be nasty," he said. "We ran before superior force; it was the only sane thing to do. But I shall go back. With enough force. With plenty of force, and the heir to the throne." He made Clarence a bow, and he smiled, his eyes glittering just like Anne's.

"There is nothing Father cannot do," Anne said to Clarence, waving an arm at him. "Nothing that's sensible, that is. Lend me a cloak, will you, Father? I want to go up on deck. Mine is not warm enough, not nearly warm enough."

He took off his own short fur-lined cloak, and laid it around her shoulders. He looked down at her face. "Anne," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "It will all come right; you'll see. My little love."

"Oh, Father," she said, "you have no thought of what might happen if you fail!" In the distance, there came a thin cry; she drew her breath in sharply. "Poor Ibby," she whispered. "Oh, poor Ibby. That damned cabin! It's so small; how can they even help her!"

Her father's cloak was so big about her that she could wrap it twice across her breast. She walked aft on the heaving deck, for the sails had been hoisted. There was quite a stiff breeze and the sails bellied taut and the ship leaned. It was beautiful, she thought, and exciting; she leaned back against the rail, her head tilted back to watch the top men. One of them was perched on a yard, completely unconcerned as the ship heeled and his legs swung out over the whitecapped water. The narrow seas in the channel were behaving as always. Although Anne could enjoy this, what of poor Ibby down in the smelly cabin, having her first baby?

The sailor on the yard waved to her, and she lifted one white hand and waved back. She was used to the admiring glances of the young sailors. They looked at her as though she were an unattainable dream. The sailor perched on the yardarm was staring down at her. I hope to heaven he doesn't fall off, she thought. Then she turned and looked at the ship's wake, creamy. So beautiful, she thought; the sea is so beautiful. I'll stay here a bit longer and then go down and see if Ibby needs me. Maybe she'd like to have me there, regardless of what Mother said.

 

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