The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Lady Anne, let us revisit the recent past once again. Formerly, you lived at the house of Sir Mathew Cuttifer here in Brugge. At that time, I believe you had a servant called Jenna?”

  Anne rearranged the folds of her dress over her knees to gain a moment’s thinking time. She’d been permitted to sit at last—if only on a small joint stool—and was exhausted after the long hours of questioning, though she would not let the bishop see that.

  “Come, lady, dissembling is of no use. Did you once have a servant named Jenna? Yes or no?”

  The bishop loomed over Anne, but the sconces in the room were behind his head and his face was in shadow. Anne could not see her interrogator’s eyes, deep in his cowl, but she could hear the bray of triumph when he spoke.

  “Yes. She ran away on the same day I was kidnapped by slave traders, just after the wedding of the duke and duchess. I have not seen the girl since.”

  “But I have.” The bishop was breathing hard, sensing that Anne was weakening. “Oh, indeed, I have seen her. She is a postulant now, in my care. She forgives you for all that you did and prays for you daily.” He signed a sweeping cross over Anne’s bent head.

  She looked up at Odo, bemused. “Forgives me? For what?”

  The bishop forced a hearty laugh, long and loud, and made a business of wiping his eyes. Lowering his ample arse into a cathedra placed opposite Anne’s stool, he brought his face down to her level; God’s servant, sitting in judgment.

  “You pretend bewilderment, Lady Anne, and that is most amusing. I do not believe Our Savior ever laughed—never gave way to such animal passion—yet perhaps he might join with me here, tonight, the joke is so very good!” The bow of his belly wobbled as he gleefully slapped his knees.

  Anne forced herself to smile, her heart pounding. This man was a great, fat, lazy cat. She would not be his mouse.

  “It is hard for me to share your enjoyment, Bishop, since I have no knowledge of what you mean.”

  The bishop leaned forward. He wasn’t laughing now and Anne could see his eyes—pale blue, the glitter of a cold sun on frost, light on icicles—no warmth in them at all.

  “Your servant Jenna made her confession to me personally, eighteen months ago. She confessed that she had heard you raise spirits and have congress with them. She confessed that she observed your flagrant and adulterous relationship with Edward, then the king of England. She saw and heard you instruct a harmless child, your own nephew, in pagan ways, to the peril of his immortal soul. Do you deny these allegations, lady?”

  Anne was mute, rigid. Her silence was a weapon in the bishop’s hand and he did not mask his savage pleasure. He stood over the white-faced girl, thrusting his own face close, whispering the words. “You say nothing, Lady Anne. Witch, whore, adulteress. Brother Agonistes named you as all three. How could he know these manifold sins if God himself had not made the truth a tool in his hand for smiting the ungodly? For smiting you, woman!”

  That brought Anne’s head up. “God? No! It was that man’s own sin that brought him to this place, dressed in those stinking rags. His betrayal of me and the king he served brought him here; his own lust and bitterness brought him here. He is not God’s servant!”

  But the bishop had snatched up his crucifix and thrust it toward Anne like a weapon.

  “Confess to me now, here, woman, and your blackened soul may be saved. Fail to confess, refuse this gift, and you will be damned. Further, the Church will hand you to the secular authorities in this city and your body will be burned to a puddle of black grease in the Markt Square, while your soul, your immortal soul, roasts in a lake of fire for all eternity.”

  “Stop!”

  The bishop slewed around, enraged. But he was not as angry as Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, standing in the doorway of the cell. The duchess moved forward with the gliding gait of a court lady and, reaching out her hand, helped Anne stand. She turned her dispassionate gaze on the bishop.

  “I caution you, priest. Lady Anne de Bohun is English and, as such, is protected by the authority of my brother, the king.”

  The bishop avoided sneering, but only just. “Your brother has been deposed, madame. And in any case, he has no authority here. But your lord and husband has, and I expect that he, as a true son of the Church, will shortly punish your disobedience in this matter by giving you over to God’s authority in this city; authority which I embody, as you well know. This woman’s soul, and yours, are my domain. Take her now and I shall excommunicate you both.”

  Anne detached her fingers from Margaret’s and turned to face the bishop. “Foolish man. Do not think to threaten your duchess, or me, with empty words.”

  Anne’s eyes were marble cold. Margaret moved closer to her friend. Together, they were of a height and, suddenly, similarly formidable. Their resistance confused and then frightened the bishop.

  He held up his crucifix in a hand that shook. Christ’s body was his weapon against the glamour and spells of the witch—of the two witches—before him now. He was a consecrated bishop. God’s power, vested in him and ranged against sorcery, would prevail. “Duchess, I am your pastor, set in authority over this city and all its inhabitants, of which you are one.”

  Margaret’s eyes sharpened on his. Hearing the quaver in Odo’s voice, she spoke over him.

  “Bishop, you have tried to frighten an important guest in my husband’s domains. But this lady is defenseless no more. Be clear on that. She will come with me now and you will return to your brothers in Christ. There the matter will end. Soon this scandal will pass away and be seen for what it is. Sensational, meaningless nonsense.”

  For a moment Odo almost believed Margaret of England, especially when she smiled at him. But then he rallied. It was his duty to stand against this foul manifestation of the glamour of women’s enchantment.

  “Be careful, lady. Very careful. A pleasing face and body are the foul road by which men are led to Hell, but you cannot sway me with these Devil’s tools. I am a man of God and, though you may be married to our duke, understand this. Duchesses and even queens have burned for sorcery. Perhaps you protect your friend so staunchly because you, too, are a witch? Your husband must be told of this. By me. And he will put you away, out of your marriage, for the sake of his immortal soul and those of all his people. And even if he does not give your body over to be burned, be sure you will end your life immured within a convent, a silent penitent until the day of your death.”

  But the lady of England now stood before the bishop of Brugge, not just his duke’s wife. One piercing glance from Margaret and a sudden, hammer-hard certainty of misjudgment weakened Odo. Pain pierced the wall of his chest, squeezing his heart like a walnut in a vise. The crucifix dropped from his hand and he slumped backward into the cathedra, heart jolting, breathing hard. His legs had the strength of empty sausage skins and they would not hold him up.

  Behind the bishop, an arras rippled gently. It might have been a breeze, but Anne alone caught the movement. Something was forming in the shadows, an outline, the glimmer of a body shape. It was growing from something darker, denser than cold night air. The glint of gold shone there and, for a moment, a woman’s profile turned and found definition. Margaret was focused on the bishop and did not see. Did not see the arm as it was raised; a woman’s naked arm whose hand held a sword. Did not see as the arm dropped, the sword flashing downward, carving the air…

  Margaret tore at the bishop’s neckband to loosen it but Anne was calm, speaking from somewhere far, far away. “Leave him, duchess. Let the Devil take his own.”

  Odo was outraged by the sacrilege, the disrespect, of the girl’s words. Trapped within his dying body, he rallied briefly, determined to speak, but the words drowned in spittle. He smelled something. With his last breath, he snuffled and sucked the air. Sulfur. It was sulfur! The bishop made a gobbling sound and his eyes rolled white in his scarlet face; then the tide of blood receded, leaving it bloated and waxy gray. But consciousness was not immediately gone. Looking down
with more than mortal eyes, Odo observed his naked feet dangling in vertiginous space over a black hole, the bottom of which was filled with a moving lake of fire. Desperate, he looked up, hoping for a glimpse of another, kinder place, but there, staring down at him, was a dark-eyed woman, long hair flying in the sulfurous wind. Spiral tattoos covered her face and a band of thick gold encircled her throat. The last of his heart’s beats was born from the terror of that sight.

  “Who…?” He could not speak, but watched with creeping horror as the woman smiled and held up her arm. Muscles slid beneath the healthy skin as she whirled the sword above her head once more. He understood now: he had served the wrong cause all his life and now that life was ended.

  “What are you?” he tried to say, but there was nothing left, no breath at all. His immortal eyes followed the movement for the last time as the woman pointed. Down.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, contemplated the corpse of her least favorite prelate in all the world. Anne and she had propped Bishop Odo’s body upright in the cathedra. It hadn’t been easy; in life he’d been a corpulent man. Butter, cream, eggs, and much good goose fat had created this impressive bulk over many, many years. In death, the many chins, the bald head, gave him the look of a monstrous baby. The two women looked at the cooling corpse with horror. Their situation was desperate. Margaret had earlier sent her trusted maid to lure away the boy who was guarding Anne’s cell, but he might return at any moment. How could they explain what had happened? For Margaret, the clarity of an hour ago, the certainty that only she could save Anne, had evaporated and some of the bishop’s words returned with dreadful force. Obedience. Duty. Sorcery. Could she really look her husband in the eye and lie about the events of tonight?

  Anne sensed the duchess’s growing fear. “Margaret, listen to me. We can do this.” With one arm around her friend’s waist, holding her steady, holding her up, Anne forced Margaret to look away from the corpse. “How many people know that Bishop Odo is in the Prinsenhof tonight?”

  Shock had filled Margaret’s mind with mist. “Um. Enough. The gate-wards would have let him into the palace. Charles’s servants would know as well, of course—and the bishop’s monks.” The duchess was feeling strange, very strange. She giggled. “But why would they worry? Why should we worry either? Not going anywhere at the moment is he, our dear, dead bishop?”

  Anne took her friend’s hands and gripped them tight. “We must make people think that Odo has left the palace. I will stay here. In this room. The guards must know I’m still here. And you have to go before you’re seen.”

  But the duchess did not move; the bishop’s body was some dreadful anchor, holding her to the spot. Round and round the words went, round and round. What do we do? Sweet Mary, tell me what to do! He’s dead. God in Heaven, we killed him. What do we do now—

  The smart crack as Anne’s palm connected with Margaret’s cheek was very loud. Anne seized the duchess of Burgundy by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Margaret, I’m sorry. I had to do it. Please, please forgive me.”

  Margaret swallowed. After a moment she nodded shakily.

  Anne grasped one of Margaret’s hands again and, linking their fingers together in a web, took a deep breath. “We need help. You must go and get it. Whom do you trust?”

  Margaret closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate. “Aseef. I will get Aseef.”

  Anne nodded, her eyes darting around the room. “Yes, of course! But first, Duchess, we must turn this chair.”

  Margaret saw what Anne meant and hurried to help her friend push the heavy cathedra with its ghastly contents around until its back was presented to the door. If the guard returned and looked in through the spyhole, he’d see the chair, and its contents, from the back and think that the interrogation was continuing. Distantly, from the Markt Square, the great bell above the cloth hall tolled, once, twice. “You must go now, Duchess.”

  Margaret kissed her friend and blotted the tears from her eyes. She hauled open the heavy cell door and fled, leaving Anne alone with the corpse of her accuser.

  The girl knelt reluctantly at the feet of the dead man, her eyes on the arras that now hung straight and undisturbed on the stone wall. “Mother, help me now. Lift up the Sword of Justice and bring down the enemies of truth…”

  Anyone passing would have heard the conventionally pious words and crossed themselves, perhaps even in sympathy. Poor Lady Anne, they might have thought, she needs all the help she can gather, mortal and Divine. Hard to believe that such a pretty girl really was a witch…

  “If you won’t say it, I must, Your Grace. This is futile. We must think about tomorrow.” Hastings turned in his stirrups to face the king’s brother. Three gates later and the guards were no longer just abusive; very close calls with the watch at each gate had left one of the horses wounded and Richard with a graze on one hand. The duke nodded grimly. He spurred his horse so that it was racing beside the king’s along the turfed bank of the Zwijn on the opposite bank from Brugge. “Edward, stop. Brother! Hear me!”

  Edward’s horse was nearly blown and the king knew it, but he would not acknowledge that fact. Richard forced the issue: he was half a length ahead of the king when he slewed his animal around in front of Edward’s, blocking his path.

  “Christ’s eyes! Richard!”

  Only the king’s strong wrists saved them both from disaster. He reined so savagely that blood ran from his horse’s bit and it screamed in protest. “I hope you’re proud of that! You could have killed us both.” Edward jumped down to look at the horse’s damaged mouth.

  “No, I’m not proud. But neither should you be. We have to stop this, Edward. You have other things to do now. Anne will have to wait.”

  Edward turned on his brother, eyes wild. “Torture. Have you thought of that? She could die.”

  William rode up, flecked white with foam from his exhausted horse. “The duke is Lady Anne’s friend, my liege. As is the duchess, your sister. No one will harm Lady de Bohun tonight…” He resisted the temptation to cross himself, because nothing was certain with such accusations. “And we meet the duke tomorrow. We must think about tomorrow.”

  William saw something die in Edward’s eyes. The king gently wiped blood from his horse’s muzzle with the trailing edge of his cloak, soothing the frightened animal. “Tomorrow. Yes.” After a moment, he pulled himself back up into the saddle. “What advice do you have, William?”

  Hastings smothered relief and spoke carefully. “Our greatest strength in this case is your sister, the duchess, sire. Tomorrow, during our audience with the duke, we should point out that Lady Anne is under the protection of England, since it is the country of her birth. And that she should be released to the duchess until such time as—”

  Edward turned in his saddle to peer at his chamberlain. “Until such time as I am restored and the Lady Anne can return to our court in London.” He gathered up his reins and patted the neck of his nervous horse. He was exhausted. And angry. Principally with himself.

  Richard spoke with hearty encouragement. “Exactly so, brother. A very good plan. Should we now return to the farm? There’s little of the night left to us.”

  Edward cast one long last glance toward the sleeping city of Brugge. Most was in darkness, yet, as he turned his gaze toward the Prinsehof, there was a single light burning still. Was that where she was? Was that where Anne was waiting, in despair, to be rescued?

  He turned his mount’s head for home and kicked the horse into a gentle trot, mindful of its damaged mouth. His companions fell in behind him on the narrow track beside the rain-swollen river. The decision had been taken.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The official visit of Edward Plantagenet, the deposed king of the English, to Charles, duke of Burgundy, was to take place on the Feast day of Saint Stephen. Duke Charles profoundly hoped that Edward’s presence would distract the people of Brugge from their fears—and now from the latest scandal: the strange disappearance o
f their bishop.

  First light had brought the bishop’s chaplain to the Prinsenhof, asking if his master wished to return to his palace to lead the household and his brothers in the feast-day mass. The chaplain was conducted to the cell where Anne was being held, but the confused guard, watching at the door, said that the bishop had already left, hours earlier. It had been dark, but he’d personally seen him go, had even knelt to receive his blessing.

  And, throwing open the door, the monk saw only Lady Anne de Bohun in the room, curled asleep in a vast cathedra. Of the bishop there was no sign except a certain aroma, discernible even now. The bishop, like Brother Agonistes, did not believe in using water to cleanse the sinful body, except during the sacrament of baptism.

  Shaken awake, the frightened girl had no more to add. Yes, she and the bishop had talked for many hours and he had counseled her; and, yes, when he’d left she’d presumed he was returning to his palace within the monastery. Where else would he go?

  The chaplain did not look the woman in the face, fearful of sorcery. Out of charity, however, he sketched a cross over the anxious but very pretty penitent’s head and expressed the pious hope that her “conversation” with the bishop had brought her closer to God and therefore redemption. Then, frowning, he strode back to Odo’s palace.

  On his return, confusion lit the fire, and then uproar fanned the flames of uncertainty to furnace heat. The bishop could not be found! Clamor turned to panic, which traveled around the walls of the city, right back to the Prinsenhof, as the bishop’s monks and servants scattered throughout Brugge, knocking on doors, asking questions. Who had seen the bishop? Where could he have gone?