The Sun in Splendour

Tsabel, can you assure me that she is not hidden away somewhere in this house?'

T have searched for her and cannot find her. Oh Richard, what do you think has become of her?'

'Do you think she is running away from George?'

'He has not been unkind to her.'

'He tried to keep her a prisoner here and when I called he would not allow me to see her. Did she know that?'

Isabel shook her head. 'Unless George told her. / did not know you had been here.'

'Edward has commanded that nothing be put in the way of my seeing her.'

'But she is gone, Richard.'

'I believe George has sent her away,' said Richard hght-lipped.

'I do not know. He tells me nothing. Oh Richard, Anne would be so pleased if she knew you wanted to see her. She talked of you often. I think she thought you had deserted her after all that happened.'

'My God, Isabel, it was no fault of Anne's! Did she not think I knew that! But I'll find her. I swear I will. Now I am going to search this house . . . every room . . . every nook . . . everywhere. You understand, Isabel, I must satisfy myself that she is not here.'

'I understand, Richard. Go and search. I do not think you will find her. I myself have looked everywhere. I am so worried as to what has become of her.'

Isabel was right. He searched but there was no trace of Anne.

Richard visited the Countess at Beaulieu. He found a very sad woman. She was very anxious for her daughters and the greatest hardship she had to bear was separation from them.

Richard decided he would speak to Edward about her being kept in Sanctuary there. It was of course because of the Warwick estates and George's obsession with them. While the Countess

was here she could claim nothing. Edward knew that George wanted those estates. Somehmes Richard thought Edward was afraid of George. Not exactly afraid. There was very little Edward feared. But Edward had always been one for peace and what he loathed above all else was strife in the family. While he was deeply suspicious of George he did not want to upset him so he turned his back on what was a form of caphvity for the Countess.

Poor woman, what had she done except be heiress to a large estate! Warwick had married her for it and so became the great Earl and the owner of vast possessions and because of these Isabel had been married to George and now Anne was persecuted.

The Countess was frantic when she heard that Anne was missing.

'She did not come here/ she declared. 'How I wish she had!'

'I will find her,' declared Richard.

The Countess seized his hand. 'And when you do, please let me know.'

'You shall be the first to hear, I promise you.'

He was going to search everywhere. He would follow every clue however ridiculous it might seem.

He made enquiries in every noble house, starting with those she would have turned to most naturally.

Was Anne there? Had she sought refuge with them?

But he searched in vain.

Anne herself was bewildered. She could not understand why her brother-in-law had done this to her. She had always been afraid of him, and never understood how Isabel could love him. Oddly enough he loved Isabel. He was gentle with her and always seemed different in her company. Of course they had known each other in their childhood and had been friends, but not as friendly as she and Richard for Richard had been so much at Middleham.

She had hoped that she would see Richard. It would have been wonderful to talk to him, to explain how hurt she had been to have been forced onto the side of his enemies. But there would be no need to explain. Richard would understand.

And now she was afraid she would never see him again

because this terrible thing had happened to her.

George had come to her room and with him were two people whom she had never seen before, a man and a woman.

George had said: 'Anne, you are in danger. These friends of mine will look after you. You must go with them at once. You will take nothing with you . . . there is no time for that. They will give you everything you need.'

She had cried out: 'But I want to know where I am going . . . and why.'

'It is because you are in acute danger and there is no time to waste now. You have to leave with all haste.'

'Where is Isabel?'

'She knows you are going and have to hurry. You can speak to her later.'

The woman came forward and put a cloak round Anne. She was very strong Anne noticed as she took her arm.

'It is all clear,' said George. 'Come this way.'

He led the way through a part of the house which was rarely used, down a short spiral staircase to the courtyard where a carriage was waiting. She was firmly placed in it. The man started up the horses and they were away. It had all happened so quickly that it was only when they were driving through darkened streets that Anne began to feel really afraid.

'I want to know where I am being taken,' she said.

The woman put her finger to her lips. 'Now we must be calm, mustn't we,' she said, speaking, thought Anne, in the tones one would use towards an imbecile.

She looked out of the window. Suppose she ran away? Where would she go? To the King perhaps, to throw herself on his mercy? But he would send her back to George. Isabel would help her but Isabel was George's wife. . . . Then to her mother. Could she find her way to Beaulieu?

The woman had her by the arm and was hustling her into a house. They went up a dark staircase and she was in a room alone with the woman.

'Now take off those fine clothes,' she said. 'You will not need them here.'

'Where am I? I don't understand.'

'Never mind.' The same soothing voice. 'You won't need to. You'll be safe here.'

'Safe . . . from what?'

'From those who seek to harm you.'

'Who?'

'Now then. Take off this beautiful gown. You see you are not going to be the grand lady here.'

'Please leave me alone. Let me go to my mother.'

'No, you are staying here. We are going to care for you.'

Her dress had been removed. She was in her pethcoats. 'Such fine linen,' said the woman. 'Most unsuitable now.'

Everything was removed and the woman slipped a ragged gown over her head.

Anne stared down at it in revulsion. 'What is this? What are you doing?'

'My dear, you are mistaken. You think you're the Lady Anne, do you not? I found you wandering in the streets. I took pity on you. I am going to take you down to my kitchens and there you will be fed for the work you do.'

'Kitchens! You are mad.'

'No, my dear, it is you who are so afflicted. You see you have these ideas. You have heard of the Lady Anne Neville and you have been dreaming of her. You dream that you are that lady. Now what would she be doing in such a gown!'

'But you have just taken my clothes and forced me into this.'

'It is all a dream. Part of the delusion. NeVer mind. We'll look after you here. You should be very grateful to us. We have taken you from the streets out of pity.'

'Stop,' Anne cried. 'What nonsense are you talking? Give me back my clothes and let me go from here.'

'Your clothes . . . my dear sad child . . . those were the clothes I found you in, wandering the streets pretending to be a great lady . . . and I'll say this, you did it very well.'

Anne turned to the door but she was pinioned by the strong arms.

'Careful, child. I do not want to hurt you. Don't provoke me.'

'I want to get out of here. This is all such nonsense. Let me go. Let me go.'

Anne received a stinging blow on the side of her face. She reeled back and stared at the woman in horror.

'There now,' said the woman, 'no harm done. You've just got to behave yourself, that's all. No nonsense, see. I mean to be kind to you. You must let me be. Look at you, all skin and bone and weak as a kitten, I'd say. Never done a hand's turn of real work.