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i.
“Richard,” Anne sighs, reaching across the bed for husband, sunlight cascading through the open curtains, setting the room alight. To her surprise, she hears distant movement near the foot of the bed, lets out a murmur of pressure when he appears in her eyesight, reaching for her hand.
“Love,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hand.
She smiles at him sleepily, her insides warming at how handsome he looks in his blue doublet, his dark locks brushed so neatly she wishes to run her hands through it. He has not yet put on his crown and Anne is glad of it, for then she would be prompted to leave their bed and return to her Queenly duties, and she does not wish that, not yet. She is content to stay in their bed for hours to come, to hold him close and bask in his warmth, to soak in the comfort he provides her.
The warm feeling within her subsides somewhat, when she thinks of why she was so eager to avoid the court. Her other hand absentmindedly reaches for her stomach under the covers, rubs the smooth, flat skin with almost no awareness. Richard’s eyes dart down, notice her action, and his eyes darken somewhat, remember —
“Husband,” Anne says quickly, propping herself up on her elbow, the sheet covering her nude self slipping somewhat. Her long russet locks brush her lower back, almost grazing her buttocks as she reaches for his hand, playfully tugging his arm so he eventually gets back into bed with her.
“I swear to God Anne,” he sighs, shaking his head at her. “I will never get to running our kingdom if you tempt me so.”
Anne laughs, soft and sweet, and wants nothing more than to do just that, but knows they have their duty as King and Queen.
“Just a few more moments,” she tells him, pressing her forehead against his. “Please. The world will be at our doorstep soon, we both do know it.”
Anne speaks truth; as King and Queen, they rarely ever had privacy, were only truly alone in their chambers at night, once they had rid themselves of ladies and squires and other lingering members of the court in their solar. It was only for a few short hours each night, but in the year of Anne’s marriage they had always made the most of those hours as best they could.
Richard kisses her sweetly and pulls away, sends her one last look before he reluctantly exits the room. Anne hears his voice from their solar, realises that he must have sent her ladies and his steward outside before she had awaken to give her more rest. Anne is tempted to smile, truly she is, but the happiness from this morning begins to fade in her chest.
Last night had been a good one yes, but the sadness and worry that had plagued her for nigh on eight months began to ebb back into her consciousness. Anne sighs loudly, darts out of bed to reach for her bed robe and slips into it, sitting herself on the chair by her armoire. Soon, she hears some of her ladies enter her room, exchanges pleasantries with Veronique as she begins to brush her waist long chestnut hair.
Anne tries to smile at her and be happy, truly she does, but some days she’s better at hiding her terror than others. Veronique seems to sense her sudden unease, smiles at her reassuringly in the mirror and says no more.
Anne had lost her baby in the fourth month of her pregnancy. She had gotten with child only a month after her marriage to Richard, had been so overjoyed by God’s blessing and the proof of her fertility that when she woke in the night with blood between her thighs, she had not comprehended what was happening until Richard had awoken and summoned the physicians.
She had felt little pain, truth be told, despite the amount of blood she had lost. Of all Anne remembers of those horrid, tear soaked days, she remembers the blood the most; how it had stained her thighs, her bedsheets, made her feel light and nauseous, as though she were slipping farther and farther from the mortal realm. One moment Anne was pregnant and the next she was not, and despite the physicians assuring her that this was a common occurrence and there was no indication she could not breed once more, Anne had not gotten with child since.
Anne thinks of Isabel in those moments, of the babe she lost on their ill fated ship to Callais and her heart stammers in her chest. Isabel who had never gotten with child again either — her husband was locked away in Bedlam for the forseeable future. She thinks of her mother also, far away on the remote estate Richard had granted her after their marriage. Anne and her mother had never been close and her newfound status as Queen did little to remedy the fact.
She looks in the mirror dazedly, realises that her ladies have already finished braiding her hair, placed her gold crown on her head and she feels strangely numb. Anne loves Richard more than she thought she could ever love another soul, and yet though her father had tried to prepare her for a crown, she has yet to grow truly used to it.
“Come, Veronique,” she says, rising from her chair. She dusts the folds of her skirt absentmindedly, offers her friend a wide smile that does not quite match the mood of her heart.
“The court awaits its Queen does it not?”
ii.
Anne is no fool, contrary to many people’s belief.
She is well aware of the political importance of her marriage, though she was Richard’s choice. The North was appeased by her marriage for sure, but Anne knew — despite how Richard and his close friends tried to hide it, that there were many who grumbled at her fortune. Many who thought that a daughter of Warwick, traitor to the house of York and a widow at that was not the suitable choice for Queen.
The loss of Anne’s baby only served to fuel these rumours.
As Anne sits on her throne, observing the court festivities, she notices the sly glances her way, the lingering looks on her stomach. The country was eager for an heir she knows that. She wonders if they ever considered that she wanted a son, a child, more than they. She thinks of the blood staining the sheets, the pain between her legs and yet she still yearns for her womb to quicken, for an heir for Richard, for England.
She sighs quietly, offers the courtiers a smile as she glances around the room. Richard was in council that morning, leaving Anne to oversee the morning session by herself. Usually she participated in some of the court festivities — played cards or chess, danced with a few courtiers in the evening. Anne is trying to the best Queen she can be — gracious, charitable, kind, willing to intervene with her husband for mercy in certain cases.
Not that she ever had to. Richard was everything a good King should be — strong, just, with a keen sense of morality and loyalty. Since their marriage, there had been no uprisings of note anywhere in England. Even France seemed to leave them alone.
Harry of Lancaster had died in the tower a few moons ago, and Anne was relieved that few doubted the truth that he died of a sudden fever. In all honesty, Anne secretly believes that few would even have cared if Richard did have the Mad King killed. The Lancaster line was dead — only Henry Tudor remained, an Englishman who spent most of his life in exile. Tudor appeared content to leave them alone and Anne knew Richard cared little for him, the Lancastrian heir who based him claim on bastardry.
The dust, it seemed, had finally settled.
—
Anne is in the gardens with her ladies when the guard announces her sister’s arrival at court, moves aside to reveal Isabel in all her beauty.
“Izzy!” she cries, hugging her sister tightly, ignoring her chuckles and murmurs of impropriety.
Isabel came to court infrequently, though they wrote letters to each other often. Isabel had cried for days when George was sent to Bedlam, though she had cried more for the harm he wished to do Anne and Richard. Anne wondered sometimes of Isabel’s true feelings for Richard, wonders if she ever blames him or his late brother Edward in her heart of hearts, but knew if Isabel held any resentment it was buried deep down.
“I’ve missed you,” she tells her, searching her features. Isabel seems healthier from the last time she saw her two moons prior. After George had been sent away, she seemed deathly pale and ill at ease. Only when spring had come to pass had her sister regained her healthy beauty and Anne is glad to see it.
She dismisses her ladies and walks with her sister about the gardens, talking quietly amongst themselves. Her crown hangs heavy on her head as she strolls beside her sister and in Anne’s heart of hearts, a small part of her believes Isabel would be a better queen that she could ever be, with a fertile womb at that.
“Izzy,” she starts, before the words die on her lips when she catches sight of Richard stalking towards her, with Francis and Rob Percy at his heels.
She starts to smile at first, moving towards him, but the expression on his face makes her slow.
“Anne?” Isabel asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Dread begins to form in her stomach.
“I don’t know,” she replies faintly.
The dread grows stronger and stronger at the haunted look in his eye — of confusion, frustration, and to Anne’s own shock, fear.
“Richard?” she questions shakily, once he stops two or three paces in front of her. “What is it?”
Anne thinks it is another death come to haunt them — her mind flashes to all of their loved ones, but most of them are in present company, and no death would make Richard so angry, so fearful. She moves forward, gently cups her husband’s cheek.
“My love, what plagues you?”
His grey eyes settle on hers and Anne knows with a sudden jolt that this grievance — whatever it may be —affected her greatly.
iii.
It took little time for them to return indoors and when Anne and Richard move to their private chamber, none of their part join them. Anne stares at Richard when he paces ahead of her, inwardly pleading for him to stop this madness, to tell her the truth whatever it may be.
Richard looks at her then, as though he read her thoughts, his expression grim.
“Richard,” Anne begins softly, her heart quaking. “What is it?”
He opens his mouth, closes it and repeats the same routine numerous times before he gathers the courage to tell her the truth.
“There is a new rebellion brewing in France,” he tells her evenly, his fingers drumming on the table. “Henry and Jasper Tudor are preparing to invade England within a year.”
Anne straightens, stares at her husband with confusion. A rebellion was grave yes, but the darkness she had witnessed on his face was more than just that, is for more than just for the Welsh boy with a weak claim to his throne.
“Edouard of Lancaster joins them.”
A gasp escapes from her lips before she can bite it back. Anne feels faint — feels her knees begin to buckle. The ghost of her first husband suddenly returns with a vengeance, biting and scratching and God, Anne can’t breathe she can’t breathe —
“What?” she asks, unwilling to accept the words that just exited his mouth. Edouard was dead, had been dead for over two years, killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury by George’s men.
“They say it is him,” Richard explains gently, his brow furrowing. “They say the man killed was an imposter — a decoy brought by his bodyguards so he could escape to safety. They say he had managed to cross over to Wales, has spent the past few years laying low and raising money for his cause.”
Strangely, Anne thinks of Margaret of Anjou’s face when she heard her son was dead — her anguish, the pain in her eyes and knows for certain that that kind of grief could not be faked.
“No,” she tells him, shaking her head. “Lies. The look on his mother’s face —“ her voice falters.
This was not true — it could not be true.
Anne feels her heart begin to race, her chest starting to heave up and down rapidly.
“Richard,” she whispers, her knees buckling. “Good God, how —“
Richard hurries over to her side, carefully places an arm around her waist and supports her weight against him.
“Shh my love,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead. “All will be well.”
“How?” she repeats, tears blinding her eyes as memories she had long sought to bury come rushing all at once. “How, Richard?”
Richard guides her to a nearby chair, and the hold he has on her hands grows tight.
“It is a lie,” he declares, with a passion she had never quite seen before. “Tudor could not recruit men under his standard, so he’s concocted a scheme that would.”
“There are many in England who would support such lies,” she murmurs faintly, retaining enough of her intelligence to recognise the risk such a claim poses for England, for the stability Richard had spent so much time and effort building.
The grip on her hand falters at that.
“Maybe,” he agrees quietly. “But I am a crowned and anointed King, Anne. Few would side with a commoner Tudor plucked from obscurity.”
Anne is silent for a moment, feels as though all the air has been stripped from the room.
She thinks of her wedding night in France all that time ago, the first time she had ever known what pain felt like, what it meant to be truly alone.
“Richard,” she starts, staring off into the distance. She can not look into his eyes. She can not. To do so would break her heart. The words on the tip of her tongue is truth, but it is a truth that would break them, would shatter the foundation in which her life was now built on, and Anne can not bear that. To speak those words would make this possible reality alive and Anne dares not breathe life into it.
The words die in her mouth and she falls silent. No doubt Francis and Rob were telling Isabel the truth in the room next door and a realisation falls upon Anne so suddenly she gasps.
“George!” she exclaims, looking at Richard with wide, searching eyes.
Richard frowns at her.
“He knows the truth,” she tells him desperately. “He could tell us —“
“Anne,” he interrupts gently, “He can not. George never saw Edouard of Lancaster, did he?”
Anne pauses, shakes her head fervently.
“He does,” she continues. “Richard, he must —“
Her words falter at the flash of pain that flickers in his eyes. Jesu, she thinks, her lips parting. Even if George did know the truth, the chances of him actually telling him were slim. He’d been locked in Bedlam for a year, with little contact with the outside world. Anne wonders if her dear brother in law would ever see the light of day again.
“My love,” she murmurs, reaching for his hands. “I am sorry.”
Richard’s lips twitch slightly.
“Do not be,” he tells her.
And then they hold each other for as long as they can, before the world returns to their doorstep.
iv.
“Do you pray for your husband, your grace?”
The sound of Lady Margaret Beaufort’s voice makes Anne want to cringe. She turns to glance at the elder woman, her grip on her rosary slacking. The implication was not lost on Anne, made her grind her teeth as she struggled not to snap at her.
Lady Margaret had been brought to court as the new wife of Thomas Stanley and the dislike Anne feels for the woman makes her heart burn. Though she loathes to admit it, the woman reminds her of Margaret of Anjou.
The thought of Anne’s mother in law — former mother in law — nearly makes her wince.
“Yes, I do pray for my husband the King,” she responds, as peacefully as she can. The rest of her ladies hover nearby, pretending not to hear their interaction. Isabel and Veronique were both suffering from a slight cold and could not attend to her today, much to Anne’s disappointment.
Ever since the rumours had spread around court, Anne found being there intolerable. Now, the lingering stares on her stomach were not done with hope or disapproval but with mockery and barely concealed triumph. The words bastard, whore and bigamy swirl around in her mind and Anne struggles not to scream.
She thinks back to the days after Tewkesbury and is grateful that at least then she had the option to stay in her chambers with no one to care. Now, she is Queen and if she were ever to show one sign of hesitation or anxiety, she would never hear the end of it.
Anne doubted that Richard fully realised the courts antipathy towards her. He was now consumed with battle plans and raising funds for the upcoming invasion and Anne desires not to stress him more. She glances around the room, absentmindedly playing with her rosary, and notes with sudden desolation that she has never felt more on display in her life.
—
“Your grace,” Francis acknowledges, rising to his feet when she enters her and Richard’s solar.
Anne’s gaze flickers to the other councillors sitting with Richard at the table, relaxes slightly when she realises it is just close friends, those who had once been her father’s wards, with the exception of Robert Brackenbury and Jack Howard.
Anne smiles briefly at Francis.
“Anne is fine in private,” she reminds him, causing him to chuckle.
The mood quickly grows awkward and Anne is at a loss of what to say. How did this happen? she asks herself. How did all the love and stability I’ve gained manage to fall apart so quickly? She wonders fleetingly whether they think her a nuisance too, once again a fickle inconvenience. Am I Lancaster’s widow — wife, now — to you all once more?
She glances at Richard, finds him staring at the parchment in his hands.
“Our spies say they plan to attack next spring,” he tells her, his grey eyes fluttering up to meet hers.
“Spring has always been lucky for the house of York,” she hears herself say absentmindedly. It was true enough. Edward had won Townton and Barnet in Spring — and York had triumphed over Lancaster in Spring too.
Richard smiles cooly.
“You are right,” he acknowledges, drumming his fingers on the table.
Anne moves to Richard’s side, feels her heart warm when he reaches for her hand and laces their fingers together.
“We shall crush this rebellion,” he tells her, almost as if no one else is in the room.
“I know,” she responds, trying to hide her unease. “I know.”
If Edouard’s alive —
My God if he’s been alive all this time —
I can’t, I can’t — I can’t breathe, my love, please help me —
Anne remains silent. She remembers her scene in the council room nigh on two years — I can still feel it, she had said. Time and Richard’s caresses had washed his touch away, but Anne is fighting Edouard’s ghost all over again. Her body does not feel like her own.
The unspoken possibility wraps itself around Anne’s throat, makes it even harder for her to breathe.
“Francis was saying that it might be a good idea for us to go on progress, Anne,” Richard says.
Anne’s eyes flicker to Francis, who steadily avoids her gaze.
“I find that I agree with him,” he continues. “We must show the people our prosperity — the stability the house of York has brought England, and quell the falsehoods that Tudor spreads, along with that witch of Anjou.”
Margaret had welcomed Tudor’s newfound companion with open arms, had declared for everyone to hear that the man was indeed her son, the heir to Lancaster.
Anne feels her heart begin to tremble.
“Your grace,” Jack Howard says.
It takes Anne a moment to realise he is addressing her.
“Yes, my lord?” she questions. She did not know Jack Howard well, knew only that he was loyal to Richard and the house of York, and that was enough. She found his gaze to be unnerving, as though he saw through all her walls, saw the pain weighing on her soul.
“This is a delicate matter,” he continues, clasping his hands together. Anne feels Richard begin to stiffen, but merely stares at the man. “Is there any possibility your grace may be with child?”
Anne swallows the bile that rises up her throat.
“No,” she hears herself respond faintly. “I am not.”
Anne can not tell whether or not they are disappointed or relieved. If Anne were with child, it would be seen as a blessing. If it was a boy, it would cement their dynasty — if she had been revealed to be with child only a few weeks ago, Anne knows the court would have been relieved with no doubt. But now, there would be rumours of bastardry and if Edouard was alive and somehow won and came to claim her —
Anne nearly throws up on the spot. She feels herself begin to sway, is only distantly aware of Richard angrily reprimanding Jack Howard for his insensitivity.
“No,” she says, finally feeling herself come back from the Heavens. “He is right to ask, Richard.”
Her husband turns to stare at her with inscrutable eyes.
“If I were to be with child now, before Tudor and his pretender are defeated. . . the child would be forever linked with rumours of bastardry, true or no.”
It is the first time she has directly referenced the reality of Edouard possibly being alive.
She can see Richard’s jaw jump as he shakes his head, refuses to heed her words.
“Any child of ours would never be a bastard,” he proclaims loudly.
No one says anything to refute him.
It feels as though she has unleashed all their demons and ghosts into the room, and Anne knows not how to return to normal, how to breathe and feel safe. She does not react when Richard dismisses the other men, and though Anne has many fears, she knows that the words spoken between them will never be spread around court.
Her husband had chosen his friends wisely.
“Richard,” Anne murmurs, her heart pounding furiously. “If it is Edouard —“
“It’s not.”
Anne pauses, waits for his temper to calm.
“If it is Edouard,” she repeats, looking down at him with wary eyes. “What will you do?”
He stays quiet for so long that Anne fears he will never respond. The seconds tick by so slowly Anne is in agony but when Richard finally meets her gaze Anne feels her heart flare at his expression.
“Then, my dear Anne, I do intend to make you a widow.”
v.
In the weeks leading up to them going on progress, Anne and Richard do not lie together.
They still share a bed, but Richard does not make love to her. He had tried once, after the scene in their solar, but Anne had plead tiredness. In truth, Anne can not bear his touch. The scars from the wounds Edouard had caused her had been ripped open, and Anne spends her nights unable to sleep, remembering. She hates herself for it, hates that she can not try to believe that he is truly dead.
It would be most like her dear husband, to snatch away any semblance of safety she felt. Anne remembers those nights in France, when she had thought he would not go to her bed and she had fallen asleep, only to awaken to hands prying her legs apart, biting and bruising —
She had soon learnt to know better, had never allowed herself to fall asleep until dawns rays began to shine through her window, and she knew for sure he would not come.
When Anne does manage to fall asleep, she had nightmares of Edouard coming to her with Richard’s head in his hands, laughing mercilessly at her screams. She wakes before she can alert Richard to her night terrors, and her heart relaxes somewhat when she watches his chest rise and fall, telling her that he is alive, that he is alright.
But they are distant. Anne feels all the insecurities and doubts she’s had about her marriage begin to plant themselves in her mind. Things she had never blamed him for or held against him she suddenly feels hurt by. The fact that he only married her when the political benefits were obvious and that he had never told her the words ‘I love you’ haunted her every waking moment. She was now a burden to him, she feared. A burden he had wed and crowned in front of the entire land.
The tension between them comes to a head a week before they leave on progress.
“The North remains loyal,” Richard tells her, gently shutting the door to their chambers behind him. Anne watches him from where she stands by the window; observes as he hastily removes his crown, places it on the table nearby.
“At least my presence as your wife has done some good.”
The words leave her mouth before she can stop them.
Richard freezes, turns to look at her with an incredulous expression.
“What,” he begins lowly, “does that mean?”
The quarrel that follows is the worst of their marriage — the worst of Anne’s life, and all the while her heart screams at her to stop, to stop trying to alienate him, to make him hate her. Their voices escalate into yells and Anne has never felt so frustrated in her life, is sure that their marriage is done for good when Richard —
“Do you not understand?” he demands finally, his grey eyes flaring. “I was never meant to be king!”
Richard gestures wildly to the crown laying on the table, glares at it with a ferocity that chills her. He had never spoke of this to her — never. No matter how hard Anne tried, she had never managed to completely lower his walls — he barely even spoke of his brother Edward. But now, his soul was bare in all its anguish and grief, and Anne knew not what to do, only had a desire to comfort not confront.
“Richard, please —“
“I am my mother’s seventh son,” he bursts. “Seventh, Anne! By God I should never have been King, I was not meant for this title, this crown! I have an elder brother still living — who wanted me dead, who was willing to slaughter an innocent girl in order to provoke an uprising!”
He paces quickly around the room, every so often turning to look her in the eyes.
“Edward was the flower of York and I loved him, and I never got to grieve for him. The rock on which my life was built on was killed in battle —“ his mouth twists painfully, grief making his composure falter. “And he left me his children and crown when he died. My family was torn apart because my brother married someone he should not have. Because he married only for love. I could not do the same.”
He quietens, turns his back to her. Anne gingerly moves closer to him, guilt making her stomach clench and once she reaches her husband she gently places her hand on his back.
“Richard, forgive me,” she whispers, rubbing his back soothingly. “You are right. These past few weeks have been difficult, as you well know. I blamed you for something I knew — know — is no fault of yours.”
He does not respond, and Anne can not resist to add: “Edward’s death was not your fault.”
Richard exhales loudly, massages his forehead slowly.
“Almost everyone I love has died or betrayed me,” he tell her lowly. “I rather fear I am incapable of telling those I hold dear that I value them so — even you.”
Anne gently grabs a hold of his hands, lowers them so she is now cupping his cheeks.
“I love you,” she declares softly.
He smiles thinly, caresses her hair with a softness that makes her heart warm.
“Even though you may never hear your husband tell you he loves you in your lifetime?”
Anne chuckles lightly, tears forming in her eyes.
“Even then.”
They hold each other for a long while, Anne’s face buried in his chest.
“You are my wife,” he murmurs into her hair. “My queen. Nothing shall or ever will change that.”
Anne thinks of Edouard, of what him being alive would mean for her, for their marriage in the eyes of God, and though the reality of such a situation makes her heart beat faster, she suddenly finds she little cares if it means she has Richard by her side.
vi.
Their party intends to go all over England. From London all the way to Wales.
They go to Ludlow Castle and reunite with Richard’s nieces. It pains Anne a little to see the Princesses, proof that though she has noble blood that Elizabeth Woodville was the one able to provide heirs. She suddenly yearns yet again for her womb to quicken, but her and Richard have not been together for nearly two moons and her nightmares have grown from Edouard with Richard’s corpse to Edouard with Richard and a boy who looks like him, their son.
Anne does not expect Richard to notice the pain in her eyes, but he does. One night, the day before they leave Ludlow, he approaches her as she gets ready for bed.
“My love,” he murmurs, grabbing a hold of the comb in Anne’s hands. Anne sighs with pleasure as he gently brushes her long locks and she startles when he bends down to press kisses to her neck, her shoulder.
“Richard,” she says, reaching for his curls. “We mustn’t.”
Bastard, her mind whispers.
“Why can I not bed my wife?” he asks her, gently placing emphasis on the word wife. They stare at each other in the mirror, and Anne suddenly misses his touch so deeply tears pierce her eyes.
“Do not cry Anne,” he tells her gently, going to his knees at her side. “Do not. All is well, my love. Let us be together as we once were.”
Anne looks at her husband, her throat closing with love for him.
“Richard, if I become with child —“
“Then we have a beautiful prince or princess and we shall live to see them grow,” he interrupts.
Anne can not find it within herself to refute him.
“Please my love,” he murmurs. “If fear of the imposter and Tudor is what keeps you from my arms, do not fear.”
There is a moment before he continues.
“I shall not like to go to battle without knowing my wife once more.”
And Anne — Anne says nothing, merely leans down to kiss him on the mouth, finally feels her fears fade away.
—
There are several moments in Anne’s life when she’s doubted God’s wisdom — His ways, His Judgement, His existence.
The moment she finds out she is with child is one of them.
Richard is with her when the physicians confirms her suspicion — her fear, more like — and he does not let her get caught up in her emotions.
He lifts her from the chair, spins her around as he laughs with delight. Anne can imagine the physician’s surprise at this display — Richard has never been like his brother, who was always very public with his affection — and despite Anne’s unease she can not help but laugh too.
“We shall all be happy,” he tells her, kissing her forehead tenderly. “I do swear it.”
Anne tries not to think about how Tudor plans to invade in a few months, tries to ignore how every shred of happiness or joy she’s ever had has been stripped from her or almost taken away. She tries to hold onto this moment with her bare hands, struggles against the fears that have been plaguing her every waking moment for months.
“I hope so,” she whispers against his skin. “Dear God in heaven, I do hope so.”
vii.
Anne waits.
She has grown rather good at it she knows. She waits in her confinement, waits for her fate to be decided once more.
Anne had discovered her pregnancy once they had reached Yorkshire on their progress and she was almost immediately sent to Middleham to prepare for the birth of her child. She has Veronique and Isabel with her of course, but she parts from Richard, much to her dismay.
He visits her and writes her numerous letters, yes, but the distance between them is great and Anne misses him with a fierceness that makes her ache well into the hours of the night. They keep the finer details of Tudor’s campaign from her ears. She knows they do it to protect her, to preserve the health of the child that grows in her womb.
In truth, Anne not only waits for Richard, for York, for Tudor and Edouard, she nearly waits for — better yet, prepares for waking in the night to blood between her legs. Anne waits.
She has waited for her father at Barnet — Lancaster at Tewkesbury, the harbour to open at Calais, for someone to rescue her when George imprisoned her, and for the blood to stop trickling between her legs.
Now, she waits for Richard.
The feel of the baby shifting and kicking in her room brings her a little joy, but it does little to quell the anxiousness in her heart, the night terrors that continue to plague her. She loves her child yes, but it seems that the fear in her heart almost outweighs it.
But Anne believes in Richard. In truth, though she knows she blackens her father’s memory to say it, he is the only one who she has ever truly believed in.
Simply, she loves him.
The thought of Richard dying makes Anne shudder against her pillows, causes enough pain for Anne to shy away from the thought, put her hands on her protruding stomach.
“I hope you get to meet your father,” she whispers, to no one in particular. “He shall come back to the both of us, I do promise you.”
Anne would give anything in the world for it to be true. Anything.
She thinks of the last time she saw Richard, only a fortnight ago it was. There had been few words between them. He had merely held her and she him, and somehow, somehow, that had been enough. Anne had never felt more loved in her life. It had quelled the ghost of Edouard, somewhat, and that night had been the only the terrors ceased to plague her.
It is the last time she will see Richard before the battle, she knows this. She refuses to think it is the last time she will ever see Richard at all.
—
“Izzy,” Anne tells her sister one day. “I am sorry for George. I know you loved him.”
Her sister glances at her, her blue eyes eyeing her curiously.
“Do not be,” she murmurs. “He is mad, Annie. So very mad. He would have been England’s doom, Richard’s death —“
Anne winces at the thought.
“Annie,” Isabel reaches for her hand, grips onto it tightly. “Richard is strong, and he loves you and the babe. You shall survive this. You are the strongest woman I have ever known.”
Anne is mute, too touched to respond.
“I am so frightened,” she says. Speaking it aloud almost feels like breathing life into the worst of her nightmares, but strangely Anne starts to feel relieved, lighter almost.
“You would be a fool not to be,” Isabel replies. “The House of York’s fortune has ever changed, Annie. But the only thing we can do is have faith and be strong. I know you may have feel at times that God has abandoned you but if you find you can not have faith in him, have faith in Richard. In the babe in your womb, in yourself. Have faith in the girl who survived the worst of husbands, of brother-in-laws and managed to be Queen of England on top of it all. You are strong, Annie. So strong.”
Anne exhales shakily, tears piercing her eyes.
“I do love you, Izzy, you know that don’t you?”
Her sister smiles at her brightly, brighter than Anne has seen in a long time.
“I know,” she responds. “I love you too.”
viii.
Anne waits until the day she no longer has to.
She knows not whether the battle has taken place, only knows that the invaders have arrived nigh on a week ago and Richard rides to meet them, and then there is pain and water and flecks of blood and Anne’s baby is on its way.
Midwives surround her, along with the court physicians, strangers who treat her like a precious object, but she has Isabel and Veronique by her side, and that gives her strength. The pain is unlike anything she has ever known and tears stream from her eyes as she moans.
“You must push, your grace!” one of the midwives commands.
Anne feels herself freeze, panic lodged in her throat. She turns to look at Isabel, reaches on her other side for Veronique’s hand.
“The baby is safe inside me,” she says desperately. “I must keep my child safe! I can not let them touch him — her! No one can touch them, I must keep them safe —“
“Anne,” Isabel interrupts, staring deeply into her eyes. “You must push to keep your babe alive. You will keep them safe — you and Richard, and you will provide England with a prince or princess. You will live to see your child grow. Fight, Anne. I know you can.”
“Okay,” she whispers brokenly, nodding her head as she prepares herself. “I will survive this.”
Privately, she thinks that the birthing bed is a woman’s own battlefield, and the enemy she fights is herself, is the blood and fear and pain. Anne complains little after that, pushes and pushes and pushes until she can no longer.
She hurts so much her vision goes black, and when she wakes it is to a midwife pressing on her stomach, almost as if she is trying to turn the baby.
“What is happening?” she demands.
“Your grace, we must turn the baby — it is stuck!”
Anne gasps with pain at the sensation, her knuckles turning white as she grips the sheets tightly.
If you expect Richard to win this battle, some voice inside her whispers, you must win your own.
Anne inhales and exhales and when the midwife finally lets go and urges her to push once more Anne does with all the strength she has left and —
“A boy!” the midwife cries with relief, once the baby finally exits her womb with a final cry and a gush of blood.
Anne exhales heavily, slumps back against the pillows as Isabel moves from her side towards her baby. Her son.
“Veronique,” she murmurs, quite unable to believe it, needing it to be confirmed. Her friend turns to look at her and though Anne is very tired, even she notices the way her face pales slightly when she glances down to the foot of the bed.
“Doctor!” Veronique cries, “The Queen!”
Anne knows little of what happens next, knows only that her sister and Veronique are hurried out of the room before she can protest, and the last she sees of them is their pale, frightened faces before a swarm of midwives and physicians hover around her, muttering amongst themselves.
Anne can feel the blood trickle between her legs, the sudden heaviness weighing her down and making it hard for her to keep her eyes open.
“My son,” she says, so quiet she can barely hear herself. “My son.”
Anne is so tired — too tired.
The world passes in a blur of light, she sees hurried bodies hustling around her and she knows not how much time passes, is only aware of a sudden presence behind her, someone lifting her up so that she is now propped against their chest with arms circling the front of her waist.
“Anne.”
Richard’s voice soothes her, makes her tiredness ease somewhat.
“Richard,” she whispers, “I am so tired, my love.” She knows not when he arrived or the details of the battle, is only aware that he has returned to her, to them, and she is so grateful she inwardly sends a prayer to God.
“Shh,” he tells her, pressing a kiss against her forehead.
Anne feels her heartbeat quicken and slow, grows unbearably dizzy.
“I love you,” he says fervently. “I love you.”
She somehow manages to find to caress his hand.
“I know,” she replies faintly. The light shining from the window blinds her, makes everything seem all the more white.
“My son,” she calls out — or tries to anyway. “I wish —“ her breath hitches in her throat. “I wish to hold him.”
Anne hears Richard distantly, does not have the strength of mind to comprehend his words. Before Anne can realise what is happening, Richard pulls her tighter against his chest so she is now sitting almost upright and gently supports her arms as their son is placed in her arms.
He feels so heavy to Anne she nearly drops her boy, only manages to hold on due to Richard supporting her. She struggles to keep her eyes open, manages to find the power to linger on her baby’s features.
She opens her mouth, tries to find strength to speak, but can not.
“He is perfect,” her husband whispers, his voice sounding rather strange, even in Anne’s weakening state.
Anne can not find it within her to reply, is using all her strength to stare at the baby in her arms.
“Anne,” Richard says, his voice catching. “Please don’t —“
Anne thinks she feels his tears wetting her shoulder, but she isn’t sure.
“Shh Richard,” she hushes weakly. It takes an alarming amount of strength for her to say so little — the words that slip out of her mouth are slurred and groggy, but she has faith that he understands.
“All is well, my love,” she tries to reassure him.
The bundle in her arms slowly gives her strength, strangely, even though she can not lift her arms to hold her son, has to rely on Richard to support them both.
“He is perfect,” she agrees, her voice so soft she hardly hear herself. Her eyes glisten with sudden tears.
Richard presses a kiss to her shoulder.
“He is, Anne. He is our boy — ours.”
A small smile forms on her lips, thin strips of white on a deathly pale face.
“I will make you happy,” Richard vows, his breath caressing her ear.
Anne thinks of a moonlit night nigh on two years ago, remembers the look in his eyes as he made that same promise. She suddenly desires to look into his eyes, but lacks the strength to move an inch.
You have, she wishes to tell him.. Any happiness that Anne has known, that she can remember without any bitterness or grief, he has given her.
“Rest,” he tells her, kissing her head once more. “You may rest, my love.”
Anne smiles, content, still thinking of that night, of the love she bore him even when she did not wish to, and sinks into a deep rest, confident that her promised happiness — their promised happiness, was within her grasp.
—
End.