The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  The Frenchman sat back in his saddle and removed his sword from Edward’s throat. “Ah. Touché. Clever. And well disciplined.”

  Edward held out his hand. “My sword.”

  After a moment, the Frenchman gave it to him, though his men protested loudly. He had no other choice.

  “But this will not save you, sir, because, as you see, my condition as your… guest… can only be temporary.”

  The outlaw had courage and Edward liked that, especially since he now had his own sword point at his former assailant’s neck.

  “Get down.” The king said it mildly, but when the Frenchman appeared not to understand, he repeated it in a frigid tone. “I said, get down.”

  The Frenchman shrugged and slid from his horse’s back. “And so, what now, Englishman?”

  Edward smiled as he mounted the outlaw’s horse. Though thin, it was a much better animal than he’d been riding for the last few days. “You depress me. I thought I spoke your language without accent.”

  “Speak French like a Frenchman? Bah! English arrogance.” Even off his horse, the little man was cocky, a bantam with formidable spurs. That, too, made Edward smile.

  “Tell me your name, Frenchman. I should like to know it.”

  “Before you die, Englishman?”

  They were bantering now, quite enjoying themselves, while the men from both sides waited tensely to see what would develop.

  “Hold him a little tighter, if you please, Richard.” The king gathered up the reins of the outlaw’s rangy bay and settled himself comfortably into the saddle, adjusting the short stirrups to accommodate his own long legs. “I repeat, messire, what is your name?”

  “Julian de Plassy.” It was said with pride and the small Frenchman held himself straighter, puffing out his thin chest.

  “Well now, Julian de Plassy, you bear an honorable name but you are engaged in a dishonorable occupation. Would you like me to help you change that?”

  The Frenchman raised his head, surprised, and the sallet he was wearing caught the light from the rising moon. His men pressed forward a pace, uncertain.

  “No! Back,” he commanded, and his followers paused.

  “They obey you. You lead them well, it seems.”

  The Frenchman nodded, his confidence undimmed. “Englishman, how can you help me?”

  Edward laughed. “Oh, I might know someone, who might know someone else. You know how it goes. But first, you must be our escort to s’Gravenhague tonight.”

  The outlaw’s eyes narrowed. “And what would our reward be if we agreed to protect you?” He said “protect” with the most subtle of sneers. The English pressed tighter, the points of their swords nudging the Frenchman in a way that was distinctly unfriendly.

  “Your life will be your reward, Julian de Plassy. And the freedom of you and yours. I shall have the attainder against you lifted. I’m sure there is one.”

  Julian de Plassy bowed ironically, in recognition. “My lord is wise beyond all telling.”

  The king grimaced. “Not so wise as you might think. Yet I can tell you what the future holds, on this occasion. If God decides to call you home to his loving embrace, I can arrange that as his instrument on earth. However, a long life is better than a short one and God is merciful, even to you. You have this choice. Which is it to be, Julian de Plassy? Choose now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Anne shivered. It was cold and dark in the still hour before dawn. She was on her knees at her prie-dieu, praying for help and guidance.

  Almost every silver penny, every English Angel she possessed from her trading days in Brugge had been sunk into her small farm and its rebuilding. There were some precious furnishings in her house, including her bed and the great devotional portrait she’d commissioned from the German painter Hans Memlinc, but much else had been sold to buy the plow horses, the seed, the expensive wheeled plow, and the labor she needed to work her land. She’d had plans, big plans, to make her farm prosper and to live a good and quiet life raising her son. All that seemed pointless now.

  Last evening she’d had word from Duchess Margaret confirming that Edward was alive but that Charles of Burgundy had declined permission for him to come to Brugge. Worse, he’d forbidden his wife from going to her brother or aiding him in any way.

  Anne opened her eyes into the candle-wavering darkness. Why? Why had Charles turned against Edward, his brother-in-law and friend? And what should she do—what could she do—to help Edward? With the king deposed, perhaps she and her son would be safer in London. Elizabeth Wydeville was no longer queen and so perhaps, now, she would not hover in the dark of Anne’s dreams, an ever-present threat to the child she called her nephew.

  But if Margaret of Anjou came back to England and Anne’s own father, Henry VI, was restored, would his daughter be welcome in her native country? Her half-brother, another Edward, would reign, but would Margaret acknowledge her husband’s baseborn child, the granddaughter of Henry V, in her restored kingdom? Anne knew it was Margaret who had tried to kill her own mother, Alyce, all those years ago when she’d heard Alyce was pregnant with her husband’s child. And now Anne herself had a son with a king.

  It was all so tangled. Anne closed her aching eyes. What should she do? What could she do?

  “The timing is wrong.” Anne jerked and spun toward the voice. Deborah was standing in the open doorway, a lantern held high.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Deborah looked back over her shoulder before she closed the door. She went to the fireplace and knelt to arrange kindling over the straw. “Politics. And the news about the king last night. You must wait to hear more. Now is not the time for decisions.” She struck flint to the laid fire.

  “But I need advice, Deborah. Badly. It’s all so very complicated.”

  Deborah smiled. “Well then, here is my advice. First we dress. Then we eat. These things are simple. And after that? Then, we think.”

  Anne’s tiny workroom was the only truly private space in her busy home. Now, as a pale sun struggled to bring light to the world, Deborah arranged their breakfast on a low table in front of the sputtering fire there. The table was just large enough to support a deep bowl of fresh goat’s-milk curd, a piece of hard cheese, a stone jar of pickled walnuts from Anne’s own trees, and fresh-baked flat-bread from the brick oven Leif Molnar had built in the kitchen yard.

  Anne drew up a joint stool and held her hands to the flames; each morning now was a little colder than the last. She was glad for the warmth. “I think of Edward all the time, Deborah. He needs troops and money. And if the duke will not help him, I must.”

  They were words that would seem scandalous if overheard. An unmarried woman yearning for her lover. Her married lover. For Edward was very married, to Elizabeth Wydeville, the queen of England, who had tried to murder Anne some years ago. It was something of a tradition for the queens of England where their husbands’ lovers were concerned. Deborah held out her hand to her foster daughter. At last Anne’s silence had broken. “Troops and money? These things cannot be my concern, or yours. Love is another matter.”

  “But, Deborah, Edward needs money most of all, and soon, if he’s to strike back at Warwick. He sent the messenger to me, remember? I feel so responsible that the man died before he could tell me what the king wanted. Whatever it is, Edward is relying on me. I have to think through this puzzle. I will not let him down.” Anne turned to her foster mother. “I must sell the farm.”

  Deborah, concentrating on filling horn beakers with their own ale, heated, spiced, and brewed with honey from the hives in the old orchard, only half registered the words. “What did you say?”

  Anne spooned curd into Deborah’s bowl and handed it to her, avoiding her eyes. “I said, I must sell this farm.” Deborah was deeply upset. What difference could the price of one small farmstead make in helping Edward’s cause? “But what about all your hard work? And the boy? What will become of little Edward—or, indeed, you—if you sell this place?”


  “Deborah, the king will succeed and we shall receive the price back, and more, when he takes back his throne. It must be done. We must get the money to him.”

  “Mistress?” A gentle cough outside the workroom door was followed by a discreet tap.

  “Yes, Vania?”

  Vania was little Edward’s nursemaid and helped Deborah run the house. She was a calm, plain girl with a strong back and kind eyes, who, having been brought up a dairy farmer’s daughter, knew all there was to know about cows and goats. She sounded distinctly flustered. “You have a visitor, lady. She’s in the hall, waiting for you.”

  Anne, mystified, rose to her feet. These were certainly odd times. “Please finish your breakfast, Deborah. I’ll return very shortly.” As she hurried the few steps toward the hall, Anne could hear Lisotte singing in the kitchen. She smiled, worried as she was, when she heard Edward join in. It was a song about lambs losing their mothers then finding them again. If only real life were so simple, thought the mistress of Riverstead Farm—the very English name given to this most Flemish of places.

  She pulled aside the heavy cloth covering the doorway into her hall and greeted the stranger seated by the hearth. “You are welcome to my home.”

  The lady was cloaked and hooded, so her face was in shadow, but as Anne spoke she jumped and the hood fell back.

  “Your Grace!”

  Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, rose and hurried forward. “No! Do not call me that, Anne. No one knows I’ve come. Not even Charles. He thinks I’m on retreat praying for a son.” The duchess smiled, strained and pale. “I’ve come to ask a favor. A very great favor. One only you can grant.”

  Anne was bemused. “I had made up my mind today to ask one from you. And here you are.”

  The women sat together and spoke in urgent whispers.

  “Your Grace, I must sell my farm to raise money and I need your help to find a buyer. Perhaps one of the duke’s followers?” Anne clasped Margaret’s hands.

  “For my brother?” the duchess asked.

  “Yes. He will need every groat and every penny he can find.” Margaret nodded. She understood that this woman loved Edward Plantagenet too. “Of course, but this farm is nothing near the answer to his needs. And he would not want you to lose your home. He cares about you, and the boy. If you will help me, however, perhaps we can bring him a much greater sum than the price of this place. And men besides. That is his real need if he’s to beat Warwick. And… George.” It was hard to say the name of her brother, the duke of Clarence. The traitor. “Charles has forbidden me to help Edward. Or even to go to him. But you could, Anne, if you chose to.”

  The duchess held up a bulging leather bag. “I have this for him—money, and a letter from me. He needs to know what he’s facing. Charles will not help.”

  The duchess was very pale. She had sworn in the cathedral at Damme that she would obey her husband, but now she was betraying that oath made before God. She had also sold some of the York jewels, including the crown she’d worn on her wedding day—a double betrayal since they were part of the dowry she’d brought to Burgundy. It was a bitter choice—loyalty to blood rather than to the man she loved—but in the end she had made it.

  “My husband means to trap Edward at s’Gravenhague. He will hold him there until he makes up his mind about what should be done. Perhaps, in the end, the duke will hand my brother to the French.”

  “No! He would not do that.”

  Margaret gripped her friend’s hand passionately. “Listen to me, Anne. With this money the king can buy a proper escort: arms and men and horses. My husband will try to avoid meeting Edward. He says he must be seen as uncommitted to either side—the French or the English. But England cannot face another civil war, which will happen if Margaret of Anjou takes back the English throne. Charles is the key. He must meet with Edward and support him, if only to spare the English people. For that, the king must come south. Once he is here, I am certain I can make a meeting happen. But I cannot leave Brugge. You can, however.”

  Margaret knew what she was asking. If Charles found out, Anne would suffer for her disobedience of his implied command. And it was a long and dangerous journey on the edge of winter across provinces ravaged by the constant fighting between Burgundy and France. “There is no one else I can trust. Or whom Edward will trust. You will never betray him. He knows that and I know that.”

  There was a fluttering in Anne’s belly as she nodded, not because she had agreed to go, but because the duchess was right. She was the logical messenger.

  A hand touched hers in the dark, and a man laughed. Him. He was laughing. She turned her head and saw him; he looked down at her so lovingly. Saw him reach out for her; felt it as he kissed her deeply; saw his fingers as they undid the lacing on her gown and…

  “Will you go? Anne?” Anne clenched her fingers into fists, nails puncturing her palms. The image of the king had been so real, she could even smell his scent: orris root, sandalwood, and his own personal smell—leather, fresh sweat, and linseed oil from the reins he handled every day of his life…

  She sighed and shook her head. “We nearly destroyed each other, your brother and I. I want to help him, dear Christ, so much, and if I sell everything I have, that must be enough. My coin will add to yours. You must find another messenger, Duchess, and I will find another home.” It hurt so badly to think of selling her farm, but, in the end, it was a better way, a stronger response to the hand she’d been dealt. And this way, she need not face the temptation of seeing the king again.

  “But, Anne, the king must be told what only I can tell him: he must know my husband’s plans or England will be lost. My husband and my brother must meet, they must renew their friendship. Edward has no other allies. You must go; you must. Please consider what I ask.”

  Anne de Bohun looked down. There were tears welling in the eyes of Margaret of England, Margaret of Burgundy, and she couldn’t bear to see them fall.

  There was a long moment of silence, then Anne released a pain-filled breath. “Duchess, I will pray for an answer. If I am told in my prayers that I must go to your brother, then I shall. If not, then I will not be the one to carry this message. And I will sell my farm.”

  The duchess rose and Anne saw how sad she was, how lost. Margaret of Burgundy was unused to begging.

  “Then I shall pray too,” she said. “For you and for me. And for him. May you receive guidance you can live with.”

  Anne curtsied, shivering, as the duchess left her hall. She watched in the gloom of early morning as Margaret mounted the palfrey that her companion, Aseef—a deaf-mute moor and her husband’s most trusted servant—held for her. As they cantered away into the rising light, Anne shut the door of her house and leaned against it, her heart lurching like a creature imprisoned in her chest.

  Yes, she must pray again for the guidance she could not supply for herself. This time, perhaps, other gods would give her the answers she sought. Wrapping her shawl tightly around her body, she hurried away. Leif Molnar had been waiting patiently outside the plank door of Anne’s workroom to speak to her, but as she walked past him, preoccupied, he hung back in the shadows. He watched her retreating figure thoughtfully. He’d heard every word of the conversation between the two women and he was filled with fear for Anne.

  He had been given a task by his master, one he had only partly fulfilled. Certainly, he had vital information now about the duke’s intentions toward Edward, and he would make sure that Mathew Cuttifer received it, by the fastest boat to England he could find. But he knew that the duchess’s message must reach the king in exile also, for that would surely influence the course of the coming war in England. One woman’s life was a small thing to consider at such a time. But Anne de Bohun’s life, and her safety and happiness, were not small things to Leif Molnar.

  Over the last few days, he’d come to see they never would be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lodewijk, sieur de Gruuthuse, governor of the province of Hol
land on behalf of Charles, duke of Burgundy, smiled at his “guest,” the former king of England, and shrugged apologetically.

  “Sire, I am sure that you do appreciate the help these men gave you, but please understand my position and that of the duke, my master. He trusts me with governing this place for him. I keep civil order but for that, the people must have confidence in my rule. How would it look to them if I granted what you ask?”

  Edward’s bargaining position was weak, he knew, yet while he had lost his throne, he was still a knight. Knighthood, even in these rapacious times, still warranted some obligations—when convenient. “Governor, these are good men made turbulent by violent times. The Frenchman who leads them is a brave man and bears an honorable name. His only foolishness is to have trusted Louis of France. One king has cheated him of his place in the world. This king would restore it.”

  The sieur de Gruuthuse bowed. Edward, as gravely, bowed in return. They were old friends, these two. Lodewijk de Gruuthuse—commonly called Louis—had been Burgundian ambassador in England several times over the last twenty years and had known the earl of March, as Edward once had been, since he was a little boy. He’d liked him then, and continued to like him as a man, exiled king or not, though Edward’s current situation posed more than a few problems for him—and burdened him with a secret he could not share with his guest. For his part, Edward was greatly heartened that Louis was governor of Holland and therefore so close to Charles of Burgundy, his brother-in-law. Aristocrats in England had often sneered at the elegant Louis: he might look like a noble, they said, yet he’d made his extraordinary fortune from brewing beer. He’d bought his nobility, rather than earned it on the field of combat. Yet Edward, always interested in trade and merchants and their intriguing creativity, had felt Louis de Gruuthuse had a great deal to teach him about the world. Unlike so many English nobles, Louis did not despise learning for its own sake; he collected books and pictures, and his house in Brugge was more splendid, warmer, and more luxurious than most English palaces. He lived as opulently as a king and Edward, during his various visits to that great trading city, had learned much of civilized living from the man. He’d cultivated tastes that he’d taken back with him to London and that showed in the eventual adornment of his many houses and his own person. Now these two old friends found themselves sparring over the fate of a ragtag band of French and Flemish outlaws.