Virgin Widow by Anne O'Brien Page A

heiress to go unmarried? Or to be claimed by a man who lacks importance and authority?’
    No. I did not. I thought as did Isabel that it would be of prime importance for the Earl to secure a bridegroom of comparable standing and wealth to our own. But there was an uncertainty, an unease, about the situation that I could not unravel. If at sixteen years, most heiresses were formally betrothed if not wed, why was it different for Isabel? And what if Isabel did not marry? What would happen to me as a younger daughter? Was I destined for a convent? A Bride of Christ? I shrank from the prospect, enclosing walls, a life of strict obedience and enforced poverty. I swore that was not for me. As for any prospective bridegroom for myself, I could not picture him. At eleven years I did not care greatly, but Isabel did and was decidedly ill tempered as the days and weeks passed with no remedy.
    The Earl returned at the end of the month, but after the briefest of greetings, hardly more than the briefest of smiles for Isabel and myself, a quick exchange of words with Master Ellerby, he spent the day closeted with my mother. He was wont to be an indulgent father and we were used to more of his attention, but his face bore a return to moody preoccupation and displeasure. When we were reunited before supper, when my mother’s company and a cup of Bordeaux had smoothed out the lines, I decided to risk his indulgence. I stood in front of him where he lounged in his favourite chair before the fireplace.
    ‘Did you make the treaty with France, sir?’ I asked.
    ‘I see you’ve been following diplomatic policy.’ I saw an appreciative gleam in the eyes he slid towards the Countess.
    ‘Yes. It would be a good alliance for England.’
    ‘So it would, and, yes, I have. King Louis will make a strong ally.’
    ‘What is he like?’
    ‘Uncommonly ugly and remarkably devious. He spins a web to trap and hold friends and enemies alike.’
    I liked the picture, having an interest in powerful men—how would I not with the Earl of Warwick as my father?—but I changed course in pursuit of information on Isabel’s marriage and my own destiny. ‘When do you leave again, Father? Do you return to France?’
    ‘I shall not leave.’ His dark brows drew together. ‘I’ve had my fill of King Edward’s Court. And the role of Royal Ambassador.’
    ‘Does the King not mind?’
    ‘No. He has other voices of counsel. The Woodvilles are knee-deep around him, by God!’
    There was a harshness there. I think he addressed the Countess more than me. This was interesting, far more than Isabel’s non-existent bridegroom. ‘Why is the King no longer your friend, sir?’ I asked.
    Slowly the Earl turned his head to look at me. ‘So you would discuss politics now, Mistress Anne.’
    ‘Yes, sir. I would.’
    ‘Anne—you step beyond what is seemly. You’re too young for such weighty matters.’ The Countess frowned at me.
    ‘I am not. I wish to know,’ I persisted, waiting. Would the Earl refuse? Would he brush me off like a child? My heart trembled at my boldness.
    The Earl gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘You have grown up without my noticing,’ he remarked, then, startlingme, lifted me off my feet to sit on the lid of the coffer beside him, leaning forwards, his forearms on his thighs, so that our eyes were on a level. I saw the shadowy remains of temper in his face despite the Countess’s soft handling and I knew that he would answer me honestly. I crossed my ankles and folded my hands demurely in my lap.
    ‘Once the King was my friend, that’s true,’ he spoke softly. ‘I stood at his right hand, as his counsellor. Do you understand?’
    I nodded. ‘You are Great Chamberlain of England—the most powerful man in the whole country.’
    The Earl laughed. ‘But the King is more powerful than I and now the King is finding his wings, like a young hawk. He has little more than twenty-five years under his belt. Young men find the need to test their