The Virgin Widow by Anne O'Brien

Author:Anne O'Brien [O'Brien, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Great Britain - History - Edward IV; 1461-1483, Great Britain - History - Wars of the Roses; 1455-1485, Historical, Richard, Biographical fiction, General, Romance, Great Britain, Queens - Great Britain, Historical fiction, Anne, Fiction, Great Britain - History - Richard III; 1483-1485, Queens
ISBN: 9780451231291
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
Published: 2010-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

I ENTERED the Abbey church by the south door from the cloistered walk, Beatrice beside me, hoping to slip in without notice.

We were settled into Cerne Abbey. It would not be for long, God willing, as the Queen informed my lord Abbot. She had experienced the brutal thorns of the Lancaster rose. Now with her son at her side she would anticipate its glorious blossoming. The years of suffering were over.

My heart was not in the rejoicing. How could it be when there was still no news of the Countess? I forced myself to cling to the belief that her ship had put into a different port and even now she was travelling to meet up with us. I could not eat. Could not sleep. So I felt unnaturally weak and light-headed as I entered the Abbey to join the Queen for Holy Mass on that Easter Monday morning.

Mass had already begun. If I could kneel in the cool dimness, in God’s presence, would I not find some reassurance? I saw the Queen and the Prince kneeling far ahead in the Chancel, the Abbot about to raise the Host before the altar. Stepping forwards into the centre of the nave, I watched the ceremony unfold. It was distant, almost unreal, as the light from the great east window was sufficient to glint and sparkle on the silver and gold of the precious vessels, on the Abbot’s ceremonial cope. I felt my heartbeat slow and a calm spread through me. When the Abbot’s voice, sure and true, began the Latin cadences I felt an inner surge of hope. It was all timeless, all familiar. In that moment I believed entirely that my mother was safe and would join us at Cerne. All would be well. Surely all would be well.

With a lifting of spirits I would have walked forwards to pray with fervour.

From behind me, a shaft of sunlight, sharp as an arrow, angled across the floor to trap me in its brilliance as the great west door was opened a little way. Three men not of our household entered in haste, to stride past me with barely a look, brushing me with their muddied garments, marching the length of the nave to stand before the Queen who had risen to her feet on their approach. The whole focus in the Abbey suddenly changed. Even the Abbot fell silent, turning his head. The messengers fell to their knees before the Queen. I saw the conversation ebb and flow. It lasted no more than a minute yet seemed to stretch out for ever.

Then feverish activity. The figures shifted and reformed into a different pattern, a ripple like wind over water. The messengers fell back, their task complete. The plainsong halted as if God had struck the singers dumb and the monks abandoned the choir stalls in disarray. A hum of tension rose, muttered words, whispers. In the centre of it all stood the Queen and the Prince together, now moving from chancel to nave, towards me.

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