The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “What did Leif say in his last note to you? Tell me again.”

  Mathew’s head buzzed and throbbed. It was hard to concentrate. With an effort, he forced words out of his mouth. “He had visited Anne and was staying at her farm. Her news was that Charles of Burgundy was vacillating. Not wanting to support the king in any obvious way. Since then—nothing. Nothing from either of them.”

  Margaret tried to bolster her own heart, and his, against despair. “Leif is more than competent, Mathew; and Anne will have her reasons for silence, also. We shall hear something soon, I’m sure of it. And we must make plans, husband, for it will be good news. I’m certain of it!” She patted her husband’s hand with new energy. “And if you’re to take advantage of the tide turning, you must rest, my dear. Lack of sleep makes all things seem black. Come, I have the bed warmed and a chamomile posset brewed for you. Tonight I feel sure you will rest dreamlessly.”

  Mathew crossed himself and stood. Perhaps his wife was right. Perhaps tonight there would be no night terrors. Please God, let it be so.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  How was it that news could travel faster than a man, even when the tracks were good?

  Two days after leaving Dame Philomena’s house the king’s party arrived at Anne’s farm on the banks of the Zwijn. It was just after dawn, yet a woman was waiting by the gate on the road that ran parallel to the river’s edge.

  “Anne!” The old woman hurried forward in the half-light, eyes like candles lit for thanks, as the girl slipped down from the horse she was riding, a horse so black it was nearly blue in some lights. The two embraced, cheeks wet with happy tears.

  Richard glanced to the king, his tone cool. “A happy meeting, brother?”

  Edward spoke quietly. “Happy, yes. But…” He caught his brother’s eye and motioned with one hand.

  Richard nodded and made a sweeping gesture with his own mailed arm, holding up three fingers. Tired as they were, the men immediately shuffled their horses quickly into neat lines of three, blocking the road and surrounding the king and his brother. Archers nocked arrows to bows.

  Deborah was suddenly rigid in Anne’s embrace. The girl wheeled around to confront a solid wall of men, arrows aimed at Deborah’s heart.

  “My lord? What does this mean?” Anne might have laughed if she hadn’t been so angry.

  Edward shrugged unhappily. “Lady Anne, this woman seems to have expected us. How can this be so?”

  Deborah mustered a dignified curtsy.

  “Sire, my name is Deborah. I come to the gate at dawn every day and have done ever since my mistress, Lady Anne, went away in your service.” There was the merest stress on the word “service.” “We had no word to expect your party, I can promise you that.” Her thoughts flashed to the Sword Mother, Goddess from the West, Goddess of War. Mother, protect us here, she prayed. The runes had told her that these men were coming, and that there was danger and transformation. The runes did not offer words; they brought dreams, pictures of the future, for those who could read them. And they never lied.

  Edward grunted, embarrassed. As the light rose, he saw Deborah clearly and remembered her now. They had met before. Anne’s face was carefully blank but Edward knew her well. She was angry. And very hurt.

  William Hastings broke the moment. “Ah, war—lies become truth, and truth? Truth is very strange. Lady, I must crave pardon for this momentary uncertainty, yet I know you understand. As does my lord, the king.”

  The chamberlain was interrupted by a yell that might have come from a much bigger chest than that of the butter-haired little boy now hurtling toward them at a run. “Wissy! Wissy! You’re back. My Wissy’s home!”

  The small missile hurled himself from ten paces at Anne’s legs, still yelling. She caught him just before he fell beneath the hooves of her startled horse, moving as fast as a juggler at the fair—a fact much commented on later among the archers. And, slight though she was, and tall for his age though he was, she managed to throw the boy up in the air as if he’d been a fairing himself.

  “Edward! Oh, my darling, I’ve missed you! But look, here is your blue horse.”

  “Where?” Little Edward raised his head and looked around, eyes enormous. He’d never seen a blue horse. Neither had the archers, and one or two crossed themselves just in case a fairy animal was lurking about. Couldn’t be too careful in foreign lands.

  “Here he is!” Anne placed a hand on the animal she’d been riding.

  The little boy looked puzzled. “But he’s brown. Like mud!”

  Anne laughed. “No, you wait. When he’s clean and all glossy, he’s so black, he’s blue.”

  Edward Plantagenet smiled down at his son and spoke softly. “Yes, Edward, he is. A horse fit for a prince. Perhaps you can ride him home? And then you can keep him.”

  Anne caught the king’s eye and a slight smile destroyed the last of the tension between them. “Your Majesty is generous. My nephew is very grateful.”

  Little Edward nodded with great certainty. “Very grateful! Now, may I ride? Please, Wissy?”

  So it was that laughter swept the party into Riverstead Farm, not tears. And, coming home, Anne was glad that Edward Plantagenet saw what she saw. Her security; the security she had built for herself without help from anyone.

  And he had seen her son again.

  The boy they had made together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I will not see him. I absolutely refuse. Your brother is here against my express wishes and command.” Charles of Burgundy had disappointed his wife, bitterly. But he was unrepentant. “No! It is not possible. Louis de Valois will know—very soon, if he doesn’t already—that Edward has found his way to Brugge. It could be disastrous, disastrous for Burgundy, and for you and me, if he heard that we had met.”

  “But, Charles, you must hear Edward out. He needs—”

  “Must! What is this must? You belong to Burgundy now, wife. Not England. Shall I remind you where your duty lies? Or is it too late for that? Did you help your brother, madame?”

  Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. It was rare that she and Charles fought on any issue, but to quarrel over Edward and the survival of her brother’s throne in England was unbearable. Words hurried out of her mouth as she ignored the question.

  “But, Charles, you have often said that Burgundy needs England to stand against France; you must have Edward’s help as king of England if you, too, are to become the king you should rightfully be. Yet England will be our enemy—our enemy, my lord, not just yours—if Warwick successfully joins with Margaret of Anjou. She will land her troops very soon—you’ve told me that—troops supplied by Louis de Valois. Edward is your last hope, as well as mine, to make England a counterweight to France once more. I will speak the truth to you, husband, even if no one else dares to. That is my duty also.”

  Charles answered with icy calm. “Women have no place meddling in statecraft and no right to oppose their husbands’ wishes or commands, in any way. Heed well the words of Saint Paul, wife: ‘Let a woman be silent when her husband speaks.’ It is not your place to teach me how I may or may not run my duchy, or to usurp my place as head of this household and your superior in every way. Must I beat you to make you understand this?”

  Margaret swallowed tears of shock. He meant it; he really would beat her if she continued. And it was his right; he was her husband. The news of this humiliation would spread through the Prinsenhof more quickly than smoke. They might be alone, but fifty or so avid courtiers waited outside the door of her solar, without numbering her husband’s guard or her own men. Soldiers were the worst gossips of all. Did Charles now despise her because she was English? Did he no longer love her for herself, only for what she had been once: a princess of England, a useful counter on the board? Desperate thoughts, but they could be true. Most royal marriages were not about love, or even affection; they were about duty. And if theirs were the same, in truth, what then? Would he banish her because she could not conceive
and was therefore of no further use? Or send her to a convent cell—locked up and left to starve as that abomination, a woman who willfully disobeyed her husband and was made to pay the price?

  The duchess of Burgundy linked trembling fingers in a knot in front of her belly and dropped into a very deep curtsy, head bowed. If swallowing this furious misery, this injustice, this terror, could help her brother and her country of birth, well, she would do it. She forced meekness into her voice. “I am sorry, my lord duke and husband. I had thought to please you with the news that King Edward, my brother, is within your domains. I know that you like and respect him. However, I was wrong to have questioned your judgment in this matter. Correct my mistakes and I will bear your discipline gladly.”

  Charles was pacing, agitated. He would not look at his wife. “Have you seen him?”

  “Lady de Bohun brought me news of him.”

  The duke swung around, glaring at his wife suspiciously. “Lady de Bohun? Why would she know anything? And where has she been? I have not seen her in these many weeks.”

  The duchess gulped. “As you know, Lady de Bohun and my brother have had”—she came to a halt, searching for a word that would be correct yet not brutal—“an association. They remain close.”

  The duke interrupted her. “How do you know? How could they remain close, after all this time?”

  That was too much; the lady of England spoke without thought of the consequences. “Because love lasts, Charles. It is not easily thrown away when it is real. At least not by my brother. Nor by Anne de Bohun.” She was glaring back at him now.

  There was a moment’s frozen silence, then, abruptly, the duke laughed. “That’s better. I wondered where my real wife had gone for a moment. I thought she’d been replaced by a stranger wearing her clothes.”

  Margaret gasped with rage. Then relief flooded her eyes and tears dripped down her cheeks. “Oh, Charles.”

  She ran to him and he pulled her against his chest. He was shaking slightly but his ragged breathing slowed eventually, as did hers. Taking her hand, he led her to a window seat, a finger to his lips, shaking his head and pointing with his other hand toward the door of the solar. She was puzzled and then understood all in a rush. He was concerned they were being spied upon. Of course!

  “Is Your Grace hungry? Or thirsty perhaps?” They were the first words that came into her head and she felt silly saying them, but she spoke loudly, clearly enough to be heard outside the door of the solar. “See, my lord, here are damsons twice-stewed with honey, and sweet almond biscuits. They will taste well, together, with this hypocras…”

  All the while, Duke Charles was whispering directly into her ear. “Not here. And not now. Later—tell him that. It’s too dangerous for us all until I know more of Louis de Valois’s plans.” Could he go on stalling his wife? Perhaps; only perhaps.

  “Very well, my lord. I will see if the kitchens have other food that may tempt you more.”

  The duchess stood and he joined her, smiling. “Yes, wife. I should like that.” He made a little shooing gesture toward the door, nodding.

  Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, turned smartly on her heel and marched toward the door of her solar, filled with energy and determination. They would meet, Edward and Charles, she would see to it. Anne de Bohun would get her wish.

  Charles watched his wife’s departing back and the smile dropped from his face. Would he allow his duchess to have her way? Would he meet with Edward?

  And if he did, what then?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “If you could have one thing above all others, what would it be?”

  Edward of England and Anne de Bohun were sequestered together in the great barn among the summer hay, avoiding the household in Anne’s now overpopulated farmstead.

  “We have spoken of this before, Edward.”

  The king rolled over onto his back and laughed. “Perhaps. But tell me again, Anne. Humor me.”

  Anne sucked pensively on a piece of straw and didn’t answer. He glanced at her.

  “Very well, since you are so stubborn, I shall tell you in one word what I want. You. I want you, lady. No more parting. Ever.” It was said seriously, without emphasis. The words fell into silence.

  “And this is the part where you say, ‘Edward, that’s what I want too.’” The king propped his head on one hand, looking Anne directly in the eye. “Or, rather, that you want me. That I am your dearest wish and always will be.”

  Anne closed her eyes. He was far too near to her, his own warm musk competing with the green smell of summer from the straw they lay on. “I have no need to speak since you know my thoughts.”

  “Do I, Anne? Do I know your thoughts…” One hand crept out to circle her waist, and suddenly hauled her body to his so that they lay against each other. “…as I know you?”

  Anne tried to sit up. “You are dangerous, Edward Plantagenet. Very dangerous.”

  He released her. “I cannot believe you’ve turned into some kind of tease in the time we’ve been apart. Tell me, Anne. Tell me you feel nothing for me!”

  “Do not torment me, Edward!” She was suddenly furious, and then came terror, for the mote-filled light of the barn was suddenly gone. Ink-black dark lapped her close. “Edward?” Was that her voice? Or someone else’s? “Edward!” No, she was calling out. But there was no answer. And then she felt something move, close by. Very close. Her skin crawled and, though she could see nothing, nothing at all, she stumbled to her feet and tried to run from that sound, the dry insistent rustle of someone, something, moving toward her in the dark. But her legs, her feet, were so heavy she could not make them function.

  Her senses, all her senses, strained to understand what was happening. Then a thing like a feather touched her cheek. Soft, smelling of dust, faintly sweet. And she understood, as she was meant to. Grave clothes—that was what she felt against her skin. She could not see them, but the picture was there: a pale, fine shroud filled with formless dust. The dust of the dead.

  She tried to scream, but an object brushed against her throat and the sound stopped.

  Look.

  No voice spoke that word, but a light burned in the dark and Anne saw it. Saw what it was. A disembodied hand, each finger flaming at its tip.

  See.

  The burning hand beckoned, once, twice, and then a third time. Anne felt herself pulled forward and her legs jerked, trying to move of their own accord. She did not want to approach that flaring, sulfurous-smelling thing. But she was walking, closer and closer to the hand. It was beckoning, beckoning her closer. Now she could smell the fingers as they burned and smoked. Like a pig on a spit, like pork meat.

  Anne’s belly heaved and vomit filled her mouth. She stumbled, nearly fell. She willed her legs to stop; they disobeyed her. The hand crackled as the flesh of its fingers was consumed before her eyes. She felt the heat on her face. Now there was only bone, held together with glistening, blackened, twisted sinew. Then the bone itself was flame, a bunch of twigs, cracking and popping.

  At the last, what was left revolved in space and pointed at her. Be warned. Then it was gone, the fire extinguished, though Anne could still smell the greasy smoke.

  “Why be warned? I do not fear you, Anne.” Edward was lying in the straw, amused, confident. Waiting for her to come to him. Anne collapsed against Edward’s chest as if her own bones had been consumed in the flames. She lay there, heart bruising her ribs, breathing like a forge bellows, but grateful, so grateful, to be out of the dark. She could not speak.

  “Tell me, my darling. What am I to be warned against? This?” He slipped one hand down the bodice of her dress and found her breast. “You burn me, Anne,” he whispered into the hollow of her throat. “You burn my hand where it touches you.”

  His words shocked her, but then she heard her own voice respond. “Oh, my love.” Her mouth spoke her mind.

  “We’ll get through this, together. Charles will help us because he must, and when it’s all over, you’ll come
back to England with me. For good. Promise me that. I want your word. No prevarication.” Edward gazed at her, both hands gently cupping her face as he spoke, soft and low. “Am I still your king? Will you obey me in this?”

  She was saved from reply by a man’s cautious whistle. Then his voice. “Liege? Are you there?”

  Putting a finger to his lips, Edward kissed Anne once, hard, then laid her gently back on the straw.

  “Your Majesty?”

  Edward wriggled forward to the edge of the loft. “Yes, William. I hear you.” It was a large barn and the threshing floor was fifteen feet below as Edward looked down on his shabby chamberlain.

  “Lord King, you must come at once. An important development.”

  “So mysterious, William. But first, do you know how dirty you are? My chamberlain looks like a hayseed.”

  William looked down at his filthy boots and muddy breeches. The king was right. Somewhat fruitlessly, he slapped at his leather jerkin, raising dust. Edward, meanwhile, descended the hayloft ladder with the unnerving speed of a cat.

  “Have you seen Lady Anne this morning, William? Is her presence also required for this ‘important development’?” William, apparently engrossed with stamping mud off his boots, kept a miraculously straight face. “Most assuredly, Your Majesty. Mistress Deborah is searching for her now.”

  Above, in the straw, Anne felt terrified still by the burning hand, but embarrassment now blurred the edges of that grim vision. Then such a gust of laughter swept up from her chest she had to stuff fingers in her mouth to stop it. How would she exit this barn unseen?

  “Let us go then, William. I see my criticism of your clothes could as well be applied to my own. I must change.”

  As the two men hurried out of the barn, William’s words floated off into the morning breeze. “There’s also the matter of the straw, Your Majesty. In the hair…”

  There was silence for a moment. Then another voice: Deborah’s.