Passive Pawn or Lady Macbeth: Who was Richard III's queen?

Dead by the age of 28, Anne Neville didn’t leave much of a paper trail. Who was this woman who stood so close to the king, yet seems so distant today?

Anne Neville. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images

In some ways it seems strange to think of Richard III having a wife. Rather like Shakespeare’s abandoned spouse, it sounds like a poem written by Carol Ann Duffy to celebrate female love and loss. But this is largely because the domestic aspect of Richard’s life is comparatively unexplored and his wife, Anne Neville, has received little critical attention.  She has also suffered, like her husband, from literary misrepresentation. Yet she was a constant presence at his side and, as I theorise in my new book, potentially played a far more significant role in his seizure of the throne than has been imagined. Anne was not a wife of the “second best bed” variety - in fact, she was the joint recipient of Richard’s crown.

This is the woman who shared his home and bed, who bore his child and deputised for him on their Yorkshire estates; the woman who had known him as a teenager, practising his archery skills under her window, who had seen his boyish body transformed by the painful condition that bent his spine into a breathless curve. As his wife, she was probably the person who knew him best, so what exactly did she know? When it came to the unanswered questions of Richard’s reign, particularly his motives and actions in the summer of 1483, how far did he confide in her? Did she know the fate of the Princes in the Tower, the cousins of her own little boy? Did she condone her husband’s seizure of the throne? Who was this woman who stood so close to the king, yet seems so distant today?

While researching Anne Neville; Richard III’s Tragic Queen, I was forced to seek some answers. This wasn’t easy; dead by the age of 28, Anne didn’t leave much of a paper trail, despite having been married first to a Prince of Wales, then to a King. Reading about Richard’s life, you get a sense of a shadowy figure at his elbow much of the time, who did not commit her feelings to paper and inspired few surviving descriptions. Anne is something of a historical void and it has been customary for romantic fiction to fill it with anachronistic interpretations, designed to suit the sensibilities of a modern audience. This works well in novels but it is no use when it comes to non-fiction, where this caricature is also rearing its one-dimensional head. Because Anne was female and the teenage subject of an arranged marriage, she has been cast as the pawn of great men, the victim of their schemes and the fickle turns of fortune. But take a look at her contemporaries, the warlike Margaret of Anjou and Isabella of Castile, famous for their ambition and drive. Why shouldn’t the Anne-shaped void beside the King be filled in the same way?

Born in 1456, the second daughter and final child of Warwick "the Kingmaker", Anne couldn’t have had a better model of ruthless ability to follow. Instrumental in the toppling of one king, in order to replace him with Anne’s brother-in-law, Warwick then reversed this process, dethroning Edward IV and restoring Henry VI when it suited him to do so. He was the most powerful English magnate, rumoured to have the king in his pocket. Which king? Well, both of them. He died in battle when Anne was just 14 yet his memory must have been lasting; it would be no surprise if his daughter felt a strong grievance against the family he had hated, the ambitious Wydevilles with whom he struggled for the final decade of his life.

In 1483, those Wydevilles were poised to take over the reins of power. When Edward IV died unexpectedly in April, his son by Elizabeth Wydeville was only twelve years old. The day was appointed for his coronation but the boy-king was never crowned. Historians have long disagreed over the motives of his uncle, Richard, who declared the king and his brother illegitimate, eliminated his enemies and assumed the throne. Yet perhaps they have been looking in the wrong place. Richard had given every appearance of loyalty until this time; of course, loyalties can change and appearances can be deceptive, but what of that shadowy figure at his side? With the accession of the boy king, Edward V, Anne was about to see the victory of her former enemies. Only 14 years had passed since Warwick had beheaded Queen Elizabeth’s father and brother and another brother, Anthony Wydeville, had prevented Warwick’s family from boarding their ship when trying to flee the country in 1470. Anne’s elder sister Isabel had been heavily pregnant at the time and lost her first child, Anne’s niece, on the journey.

After Warwick’s death, Richard had become the inheritor of the Earl’s titles, estates and role in the north; perhaps he and his wife of 12 years feared reprisals. At the very least they might expect Richard’s role to be curtailed and the reallocation of their properties and lands. In the days and weeks following Edward IV’s death, it is not impossible to imagine them plotting together about the best way to secure their future and that of their young son. Anne may even have egged Richard on, Lady Macbeth-like, urging him to action. Instead of being the passive “stand by your man” figure of so many novels, tossed about by cruel fortune and grieved by his villainy, she may instead have been a shaper of her own destiny, as a proud, ambitious, typical aristocrat of her day. Anne may even have masterminded the whole thing, the brains behind the coup, the female kingmaker.

Of course, there is no evidence to suggest this. But equally, there is no evidence to suggest the opposite. A quick glance at Anne’s contemporaries in the field of English politics - Queen Margaret of Anjou, Elizabeth Wydeville and Queen Mother Margaret Beaufort - instantly reveals alternative models of female strength. Perhaps it is as their foil that Anne has traditionally been portrayed as so weak. One thing we do know about Richard’s wife is that she deputised for him at least once, during his absence in France, representing the public face of his “good lordship.” A strong ambitious Anne is far more realistic given the necessity of survival and the protection of inheritance. She had already been married to the enemy, in the form of the Lancastrian Prince Edward of Westminster, then lived through uncertain times in which she lost her husband, father and father-in-law. She was taken prisoner, brought before Edward IV and kept in the custody of her sister, which she escaped in order to make a marriage of her own choosing. When she became queen, she was a fully grown woman of 26, and it seems she was in good health almost her entire life, as there are no records of her illness until three months before her death. In spite of this, in the popular imagination, she has remained stuck as a docile teenager, mistakenly reputed to be sickly and ill, to better suit a romantic narrative. How wrong we could be.

Then there are the Princes in the Tower. Following the publication of Josephine Tey’s popular novel The Daughter of Time, the finger of blame has been firmly pointed at Margaret Beaufort, who reputedly killed the boys to secure the succession of her own son, Henry VII (although he did not manage to invade successfully for another two years). But what about Anne? She arrived in London in early June 1483, around the time of the last sighting of the Princes, and she had every reason to ensure that her husband’s coup went unchallenged and that her own son would inherit. She would also have had access to the Tower and we know she followed tradition by staying there with Richard on the night before their coronation, early in July. If Margaret could do it, why not Anne?

Personally, I don’t think Anne did kill the boys, but the fact that she has never been accused of the crime is typical of the way she has been infantilised by the process of history. She must have been too sickly and insipid to carry out such a deed, surely? Queen Anne has not been overlooked by history, she had been as miscast as her husband is in Shakespeare’s play. Yet she was bred with the anticipation of a high status match, if not actual queenship, and what Fifteenth Century noblewoman wouldn’t have embraced the opportunity to wear the crown? It is time to reconsider our preconceptions and place Anne back firmly centre stage as a main player, if not a driving force, in the life and “usurpation” of Richard III. 

Amy Licence is a late medieval and early Tudor historian focusing on women's lives. She is the author of the forthcoming biography Anne Neville, Richard III’s Tragic Queen and her blog can be found here.

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Drama without sensation: A Separation is an unsettling novel of distances

In Katie Kitamura’s novel, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort.

In a 2013 interview with Guernica, the online magazine, the novelist Katie Kitamura discussed how publishing’s “deeply patronising attitude” towards female readers results in overtly feminine book covers, featuring, for instance, women in bathing suits. “That’s not the kind of book cover that makes me want to buy a book,” she said.

The cover of Kitamura’s latest novel, A Separation, does, surprisingly, feature a woman in a bathing suit. But there is something quietly unsettling about this picture: the woman, who has her back to us, is awkwardly cropped out of frame from the elbows up, and she is sitting at the edge of an oddly shaped pool. Most of the cover is solid turquoise – a bright wash of negative space.

Kitamura’s unnamed narrator is a poised literary translator. As the novel opens in London, we learn that she is married to Christopher (a charming, haphazard non-author) but, in secret, they have been living separately for the past six months. When she receives a telephone call from Christopher’s mother, Isabella, informing her that he has seemingly gone missing in Greece, she doesn’t let on about her disintegrating marriage but boards a plane to look for him.

Much of the rest of the novel takes place in Greece: at a “very pleasant” hotel, in “perfect weather”, the pool “heated to a very comfortable temperature”. The area has recently experienced a string of devastating fires, leaving patches of scorched earth. The location has an almost eerie surface stillness that jars with the mystery at its heart. In this way, Kitamura (an art critic as well as novelist) creates a setting somehow reminiscent of David Hockney’s A Bigger Splash, Christopher’s sudden disappearance leaving behind no visible ripples.

The narrator, too, has a glassy composure at odds with the tumultuous events. On deciding to end her marriage formally, she shows neither despair nor relief, but anxiety about the etiquette. “I assumed – I had no prior experience to go on – that asking for a divorce was always discomfiting,” she says with typical understatement, “but I could not believe it was always this awkward.” Of her feelings for her new partner, Yvan, she notes that they seem more like “administration rather than passion”, and then offers a moderated gloss of Hamlet, “You cannot say you did it out of love, since at your age romantic passions have grown weak, and the heart obeys reason.

Her emotional separation from the trauma of her circumstances allows the narrator to examine the facts of her husband’s disappearance. She knows Christopher was unfaithful and she immediately identifies the hotel receptionist as the object of his attentions. We never see the narrator professionally translating, but the novel is concerned with her attempts to read the deeper meanings behind the remarks and behaviour of those around her. She finds it easy to imagine unseen contexts to conversations: an argument between Christopher’s parents, an embrace between her taxi driver and the hotel receptionist. As she writes, “Imagination, after all, costs nothing.”

Her propensity for projection is such that some things remain lost in translation. Even the most minute interactions can be misread. When Christopher’s mother comments that the two women’s love for her son connects them, “she was looking over my shoulder, as if watching someone approach . . . she was staring at nothing”. The novel occupies this imaginative negative space: the gap between what people think and how they appear.

Ultimately, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort. How long will she allow others to read her as the concerned, loving wife? Should she admit she wants to find Christopher in order to request that they separate officially? As her search continues she notes, “There was a small but definite wedge pushing between the person I was and the person I was purporting to be.”

There is a suspenseful and menacing tone to Kitamura’s prose that might trick a reader into thinking, at first, they are in the territory of thrillers such as Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. Both these novels, like A Separation, have narrators who defy readers’ attempts to fathom their emotional depths and to deal with questions of how well you know anyone – even your own partner. But this is a work free of sensation, or even resolution. As the narrator notes, in the shock of an event it is natural to look for a more dramatic narrative. “But in the end,” she says, “this is only chasing shadows. The real culpability is not to be found in the dark or with a stranger, but in ourselves.”

A Separation by Katie Kitamura is published by Clerkenwell Press (231pp, £12.99)

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution