The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Anne’s friends rallied. Nonsense! Superstition! Everyone likes the Lady Anne and she is popular with the town, the court, and the merchants of Brugge. Jealous of her good fortune and her beauty, mean-spirited rivals are putting about malicious gossip—that’s the key to this sorry story!

  But many were not convinced. When the people of the town discussed these strange events, discussed her, they saw that Anne de Bohun was mysterious, had always been mysterious, ever since she’d come to live among them with her little nephew, more than three or four years ago.

  Many remembered how rapidly and how, yes, even scandalously, she’d prospered once she set up to trade. She’d succeeded by her own efforts, even though the powerful English Merchant Adventurers in Brugge had opposed her. Had not rumors swirled around her even then? Rumors that her unnatural, unwomanlike success had been caused by sorcery? Nodding heads recalled that scandal well.

  Wasn’t it whispered then that Charles—their charming duke who liked women so very much—had protected the beautiful Lady Anne for reasons of his own?

  The word “lust” floated, musklike, on the air.

  But others, wishing to be fair to Anne de Bohun, said, Time has given the lie to that shameful rumor. Our duke has married our duchess, and fallen deeply in love with his wife.

  Ah, said some, but our duchess was formerly the Lady Margaret of England. And now Louis, the king of France, desires to crush Burgundy because of our duchess’s brother, the former king of England, Edward Plantagenet. And he was mentioned by the monk as well, did you hear that? Named as Lady Anne’s lover.

  A wise head in an alehouse piped up. “Someone tried to murder Anne de Bohun, didn’t they, in the weeks before the wedding of the duke and duchess? That was very strange.”

  And another said, “Stranger still that she nearly died, was sure to die, but survived. William Caxton’s wife, for one, named Lady Anne for a whore. And a witch. And she was a most respectable lady, God rest her soul.”

  Yet many who knew them both acknowledged that Maud Caxton had never liked Anne de Bohun, had always disapproved of the English girl because, some said, her husband, William, the man who led the English Merchants, also lusted after the girl.

  There it was, though: smoke from a barely acknowledged fire. Had Anne de Bohun been, in truth, an adulterous whore? With Caxton? With the duke?

  All through the anniversary of Christ’s birth, while the emotional temperature of the town rose and rose with this astonishing and developing scandal, the girl herself, this named “witch” and “whore,” said nothing, did nothing. She allowed her friend, the duchess, to defend her.

  “This is ridiculous, Charles. You must see that?” Margaret of Burgundy strove for calm as she watched the duke pace up and down. His face was impassive but she knew that masked confusion—and doubt.

  “The man is mad. Insane. What mystic or prophet—if he is truly God’s creature—speaks with such venom? God is love. Especially at the season of his birth, when He came to us as a little child.” Margaret was convinced of the truth, but she knew the monk’s words had caused sensational damage to her friend, bursting, as they had, like a dam of filth over Anne’s head. “My Lord, what has passed today is astonishing, and we all saw it and we all heard it. But we all know it to be nonsense. Lady Anne de Bohun is my friend, as she is yours. As she is the friend of Burgundy and Brugge. She has proved that to me, and to you. That man, that spitting fool, has called her a witch and… other things. Yet you and I both know our friend. We know her for what she is. A kind lady who lives quietly and has the good of all at heart.”

  Charles nodded as if he accepted every word. But Anne, mute, understood. Charles, duke of Burgundy, was mired in a terrible game of politics. What would he do, what could he say? Especially since Edward’s name had been dragged into this sorry mess just before they were to meet, officially, for the first time on the following day.

  The duke looked at them both. “Lady Anne, can you explain any of these accusations?”

  Anne raised her head. Her eyes were huge and shadowed. “I think I know who he is. Brother Agonistes, I mean.”

  Margaret sat down beside her friend, taking one unresponsive hand in her own.

  “Once, he called himself Dr. Moss.”

  The duchess jumped. “Yes, you’re right! I knew there was something—”

  “Margaret, let Lady Anne speak.”

  “He came to my then master’s house after I fainted in the abbey when Aveline… when my sister was churched. After the birth of her boy.”

  Margaret and the duke looked at each other. “Your sister’s son? Little Edward?”

  Anne looked down at her hands and nodded. Partial truth was dangerous, but better some than none. Aveline’s baby had indeed been called Edward, but he wasn’t her Edward—not the little boy Anne called her nephew. She had always called Aveline her sister and passed off her own child, her own son, as that of her dear, dead friend. They had been sisters under the skin, and Anne had closed Aveline’s eyes with pennies. She’d earned the right to call her such.

  The duke turned to his wife. “Dr. Moss was a physician at your brother’s court, madame?”

  “Yes, Charles, he was. And a friend of the king’s as well.”

  Anne looked up. She would tell the truth now. “Yes, he was in favor at court. But he was more than the king’s friend. He was a pander—oh, a very good one. Discreet, elegant and worldly, but—”

  Margaret was astonished. “He supplied women to my brother?”

  Anne nodded. And her eyes filled with tears of shame. “Me, he supplied me; though I did not know, at the time, that such was his intention. Moss made sure I came to court and was noticed by… by the king.” She had nearly called him “Edward.” “Moss thought to advance himself, using my body. But, in the end, he wanted me for himself.” She flushed with remembered anger. “He nearly destroyed me. Because—God help me—in the end, I fell in love with your brother, duchess, even though I knew it was wrong. And I nearly lost my soul because, by then, I knew…”

  The duke was intrigued. An extraordinary story was emerging, wrenched out of this girl sentence by sentence. “What did you know, Lady Anne?”

  Should she tell them? She no longer held the proof of her birth. Perhaps the duke and duchess would not believe her. But she had little defense against the monk’s accusations, and family helped each other. Didn’t they?

  Anne’s voice was a whisper. “I knew who I was. Who I am. I am your cousin, duchess.” She stumbled on, not daring to look up. “I am the natural daughter of Henry VI, that poor distracted man, whom I have never met. And, Duke Charles, I must tell you the truth now.”

  The duke’s eyebrows rose and the duchess gazed, astonished and speechless, at her friend.

  “The child I call my nephew is Edward’s child, the child of a king of England, and the grandson of another.”

  The duke was direct. “Does the king know all this?”

  Anne laughed, an odd sound in that charged atmosphere. “Oh yes, he knows. He knows everything. It’s the reason I chose exile from England and came to Brugge.” She raised her eyes to the duke. “He wanted to kill me when I told him about my father, gave him the proof, and yet… we fell so deeply in love. I love him still. And I had thought…” The words trailed off. She would not voice her hurt and confusion, the uncertainty she felt now about Edward’s true feelings for her.

  “But the monk called you a witch. Why would he do that?” The duke’s tone, as he digested all these surprises and asked this final question, was entirely neutral.

  The duchess spoke firmly. “Thwarted lust. Perhaps self-righteousness. Then again, he may be truly mad.”

  Anne said nothing. When she had fallen in love with the king, the doctor’s downfall had begun. Today, at the feast on the anniversary of Christ’s birth, he’d been revenged on her, and on Edward. And though the duke saw the honesty in Anne’s eyes, he noted the fact and noted it well: she had not answered the question. Perhaps, af
ter all, the monk was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  News of the fiasco at the Christ-mass feast had reached the farm late in the day from a bargeman who’d tied up at Anne’s river gate to buy butter. And as the English ate their supper, fact and rumor became more and more lurid in the retelling.

  Earl Rivers was drunk. “I’m telling you the truth. The bargeman said the monk called her a whore. And a witch. God save us, William—we eat in the house of a sorceress! He named the king as an adulterer too. No surprises there, eh?”

  He guffawed, punching Richard’s shoulder and, in his glee, choked and dribbled ale freely from his nose. Hastings frowned at the extravagant fool, even now banging his beaker on Anne’s board as he called for more to drink. The earl might be the brother of Elizabeth Wydeville, the queen, but he was also a rowdy idiot at times.

  “Rivers, you’re repeating gossip. This monk—he sounds touched.”

  Hastings put one finger to his temple and tapped it. “Too much incense, if you ask me.”

  That got a big laugh.

  Edward, who was talking with his archers, encouraging them to eat well for the days ahead, looked around. “What? What’s so funny?”

  He sauntered over to his friends and inserted himself between them on the bench. “Move up, Richard. I swear, you’re getting fat with all this lying around!”

  Richard grinned. “Well, brother, if I am, the remedy is close, with all the fighting that’s to come. Long life in paradise to Stephen, saint and martyr. May he guide us tomorrow, on his day, with good counsel.”

  They all crossed themselves and laughed with great good humor, joining Lord Rivers in the call for “More ale, more ale!” Lisotte and Vania, harried with the serving of so many extra mouths and stomachs, hurried back to the house to drain the last of the Christ-mass brew. Good-humored catcalls followed them from the men in the barn. “What sort of inn is this place? Too slow! Too slow!” Edward frowned and William Hastings took the hint, rising to his feet and calling out, “Hush now! You are discourteous, my friends, even humorously. Lady Anne’s women work very hard.” “So does Lady Anne. On her back, at least!” Earl Rivers was convinced it was the best joke in the world and, unsuspecting, the archers guffawed along with everyone else. Then each man in the barn saw the look on the king’s face. It was murderous. There was instant silence.

  “What did you say?”

  Edward rose and the unfortunate earl had a sudden urgent desire to piss himself. He wriggled off his bench and knelt before the king, head bent as if for execution. “Nothing, liege. Nothing at all.”

  Eagle-like, the king glared down on his brother-in-law; the earl could almost hear the beating of great wings. Quavering, Rivers uttered the fatal words: “Sire, I was just repeating what the monk said.” Edward, closeted for the day with William and Richard, planning for tomorrow’s meeting with the duke, had heard nothing about the Christ-mass feast. “Monk? What monk?” The silence settled thick as snow. Earl Rivers swallowed to control his shaking jaw. “The Dominican. At the duke’s feast. He accused Lady Anne of witchcraft and… and a number of other things.” Earl Rivers gulped and breath fled; he could say nothing more. That saved him. Edward’s glance swept the faces of the men in the hall. He could see that each one of his companions knew what he did not.

  He swung back to the earl. “Get up,” he ordered.

  Earl Rivers squared his shoulders as he stood, face scarlet from embarrassment. But the king turned away from his queen’s brother. “William, Richard, come with me.”

  A blast of freezing air rushed through the barn as Edward strode outside. Hastings and Gloucester scrambled from their bench in pursuit. They found Edward saddling a horse at speed; he was white with rage and fear. Brutally wrenching the saddle girth tight—a surprise to his chosen mount, which had blamelessly been eating its evening mash—Edward rounded on his friends.

  “Who is this monk?”

  William shrugged uneasily and cleared his throat, glancing at Richard for support. Bravely, the duke spoke first.

  “Brother, he’s a madman. We’ve had reports—”

  “Reports? Reports! Why was I not told of these reports?”

  William added his voice. “You have far too much else to concern you, sire. This monk is a momentary wonder. His claims were entirely ridiculous. It will come to nothing.”

  “I am most relieved, William. And grateful. You must have great confidence in this intelligence to limit my need for knowing it.” His glance at his old friend was cutting. “What did this madman say?” The king was in the saddle now, wrapped in his riding cloak, sword at his belt. “Well? I must know whom and what I fight. What did he say, brother?”

  Richard hurried to throw a saddle across another horse, fumbling with the girth. “He called Anne a witch. And accused her of adultery. With—” Even he balked at the final words, turning into the horse’s belly as he hauled on the buckles of the girth. Edward’s brows went up at his brother’s embarrassment. “With me, perhaps?” Richard’s busy silence gave the answer. The king wheeled his horse on a shortened rein. “And witchcraft too? I hope this monk is well shrived!”

  And he was gone, spurring in the direction of Brugge.

  “Edward, wait!” Richard rode away from Anne’s farm a moment later in pursuit of the king, his cloak flying out behind like great, dark wings. Hastings was later by a minute, lashing his horse to catch the brothers on the path that led to Brugge. Witch or not, Anne de Bohun had some explaining to do, but William doubted very much that Edward would listen to sense where Anne was concerned. This morning the king had chosen duty before his passion for this girl. Now that decision was undone with light words and gossip. God curse Rivers! How had Anne come this far? A servant at court, nothing more, just a maid to the queen. Now Anne de Bohun was danger incarnate—danger for Edward, danger for England. He must diffuse that danger, if he could. It was his duty. “Wait up, my lords, wait up!”

  Lisotte, Deborah, and Vania dodged the men’s horses—one, two, three—as they flew past, trying not to spill the ale in their leather buckets. They stared fearfully after the riders as they disappeared, shouting, into the cold dark.

  The Devil himself rode out across the night world just as these men did, gathering the souls of sinners. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The other women crossed themselves, but Deborah did not. As Vania and Lisotte knocked on the doors of the barn, shouting for them to be opened, Deborah gazed into the black distance and prayed. But she prayed to another, older god for help. The Sword Mother.

  In these uncertain times, the watch on the Kruispoort, one of the great gates of the walled city of Brugge, performed its duty faithfully. Every night, the gate was closed at sunset and locked and bolted. All the gates of Brugge were closed and locked and bolted, and none was opened for any living thing—no man, no woman, no child—until the morning.

  “There’s an English Angel in it for each man if you will open the gate! Come, let us in, our business is most urgent. My master, the king…” Hastings shouted the words into the wind, but the gusting night air snatched them away.

  “What? A king? Hah! If he’s really a king, tell him to come back in daylight so we can see him properly. Now leave! Your noise disturbs the rest of the people here.”

  Hastings turned to Edward, utterly frustrated. “Unless there’s another way into the city, sire…?”

  Edward rode forward, tugging at the hood of his cloak and pulling it back so the men on the gate could see his face. “I am Edward Plantagenet, king of England.”

  The torches of the watch fought the same wind that snatched away his words; it was impossible to see who was yelling at them from the shadows of the city wall.

  Edward bellowed louder. “I have business with your duke, my brother-in-law. Open this gate!”

  “You could be French Louis himself for all we care.” A volley of arrows came from the ramparts of the gate—aimed to frighten, not kill. One sliced a trough in William Hastings’s hair and anoth
er startled his horse, whizzing past its ear.

  “Leave now. Or believe that worse will follow.”

  Edward wheeled his horse abruptly and kicked it to a canter, then a gallop, shouting as he rode, “How many gates are there, Richard?”

  Booting his horse to keep up, Richard yelled back, “Not sure. Eight? Nine?”

  “One of them will open for us.”

  William Hastings glanced at Richard of Gloucester, shaking his head. The duke shrugged helplessly. This is madness! his look said. William nodded, grim-faced. No one woman on Earth was worth this. Somehow, he would make the king understand that. But not tonight; plainly, not tonight.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It was close to the end of the Christ-mass night and Bishop Odo of Brugge had already been interrogating Anne—there was no other word for it—for some hours. He had hurried to the Prinsenhof immediately he’d been summoned, as news of Brother Agonistes’s sensational accusations spread.

  A public accusation of witchcraft was a most serious matter—a matter for the doctrinal arm of the Church, a burning matter. And though Duke Charles was not a superstitious man—he thought talk of witchcraft was nonsense in a modern state—he was a politician. Bishop Odo had influence in Brugge, and Charles needed his people united in support of the war that would come to their doors very soon.

  For that, he must have calm in his city. Under these circumstances, the fate of one woman was much less important than the survival of the duchy of Burgundy. And so, over the protests of his duchess, Charles ordered that, in the first instance, a “meeting” between Anne and Bishop Odo would take place. In the interests of public stability, he would permit the Church to test the accusations of witchcraft against Anne in an informal way. To formalize the proceedings would be to sanction torture.

  The bishop was delighted to oblige his duke with expert advice in this matter. He sensed that this woman—this named and branded servant of venery and the Devil—might be his path to a long-overdue archbishopric and, after that, a cardinal’s hat. Anne de Bohun would be his final test of worthiness for high office, and he would not fail. He would be her salvation also, of course—he would burn her body to save her soul if he had to, because it was his professional duty to find and drive demons out from her sinful woman’s flesh. And so, with the agreement, if not the unequivocal support, of the duke, tonight, he, Christ’s servant in Brugge, would hunt for the truth. He would search out the signs of Satan manifest within this girl.