Virgin Widow
A Sunday Times BestsellerEngland’s Forgotten Queens‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale.’-The Times'I was a penniless, landless petitioner, my Neville blood a curse, my future dependent on the charity of those who despised me…’Anne Neville is the heiress and daughter of the greatest powerbroker in the land, Warwick the Kingmaker. Trapped in a deadly tangle of political intrigue, she is a pawn in an uncertain game, used by the houses of Neville, York and Lancaster alike.In England’s glittering, treacherous court, not all wish to see the Nevilles raised high. The Earl of Warwick’s ambition and pride lead him into an attempt to depose the Yorkist King; his treason forces his family into exile.Humiliated and powerless in a foreign land, Anne must find the courage and the wit to survive in such a dangerous man’s world.Compulsively readable, Anne O’Brien vividly evokes the story of Richard III’s queen with a passion and vibrancy reminiscent of Phillipa Gregory and Alison Weir.Praise for Anne O’Brien‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale.’- The Times‘A gem of a subject … O’Brien is a terrific storyteller’- Daily Telegraph‘Joanna of Navarre is the feisty heroine in Anne O’Brien’s fast-paced historical novel The Queen’s Choice.’-Good Housekeeping‘A gripping story of love, heartache and political intrigue.’-Woman & Home‘Packed with drama, danger, romance and history.’-Pam Norfolk, for the Press Association‘Better than Philippa Gregory’ – The Bookseller ‘Anne O’Brien has joined the exclusive club of excellent historical novelists.’ – Sunday Express ‘A gripping historical drama.’-Bella@anne_obrien
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Virgin Widow
Anne O’Brien
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l . The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
HQ is an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Published in Great Britain 2010.
HQ 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
©Anne O’Brien 2010
ISBN 978-1-4089-2795-3
Version: 2018-04-09
About the Author
ANNE O’BRIEN taught history in the East Riding of Yorkshire before deciding to fulfil an ambition to write historical fiction. She now lives in an eighteenth-century timbered cottage with her husband in the Welsh Marches, a wild, beautiful place renowned for its black-and-white timbered houses, ruined castles and priories and magnificent churches. Steeped in history, famous people and bloody deeds, as well as ghosts and folklore, the Marches provide inspiration for her interest in medieval England.
Visit her at www.anneobrienbooks.com
Table of Contents
For my husband, George. In gratitude for his enduring support and his faith in me and Anne Neville.
Acknowledgements
With thanks to Jane Judd, my agent, whose belief in Virgin Widow was sometimes greater than mine. And to Maddie West and all at HQ. Their enthusiasm has been beyond price.
“Was ever woman in this humour wooed?"
William Shakespeare, Richard III
House of York
Chapter One
April 1469—on board ship, off the English port of Calais
ISABEL whimpered. With creaks and groans the ship listed and thumped against the force of water as if it would be torn apart by the next wave, casting us into the depths. Isabel clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes staring at the heaving wooden walls that hemmed us in, the sides of a coffin.
‘Now what’s wrong with you?’ It was not fear of a watery death. I knew what it was, even as I prayed that it was not. The ship rolled again in the heavy swell, wallowing queasily in the dips before lifting and lurching. Sweat prickled on my forehead. Nausea clutched my belly before fear rapidly drove it out again. ‘Isabel.’ I nudged her arm sharply to get her attention. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, the only available chair in the cabin and the property of the captain, her whole body rigid, braced. Eyes tight closed to shut out the desperate pitch and roll, one hand was closed claw-like on the arm. I shuffled forwards on my stool. ‘Is it the baby?’
‘Yes,’ she gasped, then, ‘No…no. Just a quick pain.’ On a deep breath her body relaxed fractionally, fingers uncurling from the carved end. ‘There, it’s gone. Perhaps I mistook it.’
And perhaps she didn’t. I watched her cautiously as she eased her body in the confined space. Her face was as livid and slick as milk, drawn with near-exhaustion. Wedged into the chair in that crowded, low-ceilinged cabin, her belly strained against the cloak she clutched to herself as if she were cold. It was so close and airless that I could feel the sweat work its way down my spine beneath the heavy cloth of my gown. Nine months pregnant, my sister Isabel was. And even I knew that this was no time to be at sea on a chancy expedition.
I got up to pour a mug of ale, staggering as the vessel lifted and sank. ‘Drink this.’
Isabel sniffed as if the familiar aroma of malted hops repelled her. As it had for much of her pregnancy. ‘I don’t want it. I would rather it were wine.’
But I pushed it into her hands. ‘It’s all we have. Drink it and don’t argue.’ I struggled against telling her that this was no time for ungrateful petulance. I was very close to gulping the small-beer myself and letting her go thirsty. ‘It will ease your muscles if nothing else.’
‘But not my bladder. The child presses heavily.’ Another grimace, another groan, as she sipped. ‘Pray God it will be born soon.’ Isabel had never tolerated discomfort well.
