The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  The crowds lining the narrow streets waiting for Edward Plantagenet to arrive with his party became badly unsettled in the tumult. Accusations of witchcraft one day and evaporating bishops the next. Where would it all end? Signs and omens, frightening portents…

  However, the visit of the deposed English king was a distraction the Bruggers appreciated. Edward Plantagenet remained popular in their city, not least because the citizens remembered the largesse from the king and his courtiers at the time of their duke and duchess’s wedding. They were hoping for the same today. The crowd shuffled and shoved, each person intent on finding the best place from which to see the show. Men liked Edward Plantagenet because he looked like a proper king, and women sighed for him: his shoulders, his face, his long legs, and his bright eyes. Yes, the people of Brugge wished him well and were happy to cheer him on in his quest to regain his throne—provided it didn’t cost them too much.

  Edward and his brother, surrounded by their few knights, archers, and mercenaries, did their best to make an impressive show. They would not look like supplicants if they could help it! The brothers rode side by side into the city through its wide-opened gates; they were blessed with a brilliant blue day after weeks of cold and gloom. There was a certain irony in the respectful bows their party received from the men who manned the Kruispoort as they rode beneath its battlements. Of course, these men were the day watch.

  Richard expelled a deep, relieved sigh. “Promising so far, brother. The weather, I mean. The sun’s back.”

  The duke, appareled in the most respectable of his good clothes, waved cheerfully to the curious citizens as they hung out of their windows to watch the Plantagenets and their party ride toward the Prinsenhof. He hoped the numerous pretty women among the spectators would be a distraction to Edward.

  “A very good omen, Richard. Particularly the sun. Sol remains our friend it seems.” Edward, like his brother, nodded, smiled, and waved at the women calling out from their doors and casements, but his eyes were bleak. Only the Lady Mary knew if Anne was alive or dead.

  “It’s clear that ours is a popular cause, my liege. Duke Charles will find comfort in the warmth of our reception.” William Hastings was riding directly behind the brothers and had to shout to be heard over the welcoming din.

  “Amen to that, Your Majesty.” Richard was determined to keep Edward’s spirits up, though none of them believed the crowd’s adulation would guarantee anything from Charles of Burgundy.

  Edward nodded and caught an orange thrown to him by a pretty girl in a casement window. Bowing his thanks as his horse carried him on beneath the tall gables of her house, the king handed the shriveled little fruit to his brother.

  “I have a plan. It has little to do with how his people feel about us. It’s very simple. Ask for ships. Ships and money.”

  “And men?”

  They were passing now under the first of the great gates into the Prinsenhof, the horses’ hooves clacking sharply on the cobbles. The sound bounced back from the massive walls around them. Edward shivered as he passed through the shadowed, echoing gate. Alive or dead, Anne was somewhere deep within this pile of buildings. “What? I didn’t hear you, Richard.”

  Dismounting, the men in the English party gathered around Edward, adjusting cloaks, pulling tunics and jerkins straight, hauling up their hose to debag wrinkled knees after the ride.

  “I said, what about men? Do you think he’ll give us men?”

  No time for a reply. The steward of the Prinsenhof advanced out of the shadowed interior of the building, bowed deeply, then more deeply again, until, finally, he sank down to kneel upon one knee, his gesture mimicked by a small fleet of palace functionaries in his wake. In a resonant voice, the steward called out so that all within shouting range could hear: “Your Majesty, my master the duke of Burgundy, lord of Peronne, Roye, Montdidier, Liege, Ghent, Flanders, the Lowlands, and of Gorinchem; governor of the most noble order of the Golden Fleece and knight of the illustrious order of Saint George, bids you welcome on this most auspicious day.”

  Edward bowed slightly from the waist to acknowledge the honor of the invitation and signaled that the steward should stand. As the man and his attendants rose to form themselves into a carefully graded procession of precedence, Edward raised his eyebrows and whispered from the side of his mouth, “Very promising, Richard. Proper state, it seems.”

  Richard of Gloucester grinned happily. “Well, it’s about time our dear brother-in-law acknowledged us, and you, properly!”

  “I see our sister’s hand at work in this, I think. Mustn’t overreact.”

  Charles, duke of Burgundy, was formally arrayed in his Presence chamber under a massively embroidered and gem-studded Cloth of Estate. As he waited for Edward and his men to appear, his face carefully schooled to calm dispassion, only those who knew him very well could sense his nervousness. Duchess Margaret was one such, and she yearned to touch her husband’s hand or catch his eye and smile. But that would be incorrect at such a time. Still, she was grateful for the show the duke had chosen to make in welcoming her brother.

  Today, Charles was dressed as grandly as any monarch in a black velvet doublet spangled with gold studs, teardrops of crystal, and evenly matched pearls of great luster. Beneath his left knee he wore the blue garter of the Knights of Saint George; he’d been made a member of that order by Edward Plantagenet himself, when he’d married Margaret of England. He had hesitated before agreeing with his wife that he should wear it today, but, in the end, he was at peace with the signal it sent to the court. Louis de Valois would certainly hear of this gesture of support, but Charles had decided he had ceased to care what the king of the French thought. Louis, personally, had repudiated the Treaty of Peronne only so recently agreed between them. Let him now reap the whirlwind.

  Charles had also chosen particularly provocative headgear today; it, too, would send a signal to Louis. As a duke, Charles was not entitled to a crown, but for this audience he was wearing a tall hat fashioned from black velvet and glossy beaver skin. It was an impressive object, topped with ostrich feathers fixed by massive emeralds and encircled by a coronet of gold studded with diamonds. It was not a coronet in the conventional shape of that worn by a duke, however. No, this appeared much more like a royal diadem. Let Louis hear of that, as well, and make of it what he would. A warning? Certainly!

  “Thank you, Charles, for doing this.” Beside him, his duchess, the former Lady Margaret of England, contrived to whisper to him, almost without moving her lips. Charles nodded gravely, but he was not certain his wife understood the real significance of this reception today. None of this ceremonial would have happened, no matter how much she’d wanted it, if the times had not changed.

  Duke Charles allowed himself a small, fond smile. Margaret was looking particularly attractive today, if a little tense, which was to be expected. Dressed in a simple gown of pearl-white damask beneath a sideless blue velvet over-robe lined with white cloth of gold, the duchess had also covered her hair with a low-crowned cap of pure white silk on which was mounted an airy headdress of stiffened gauze, suggestive of butterflies’ wings. Only one in a hundred women had the carriage and grace to carry off such an outrageous creation and not look foolish; his wife was one of them.

  Suddenly, dramatically, the closed doors of the Presence chamber were flung open and the palace steward advanced into the room, striking his staff of ivory, lignum vitae, and gold three times on the tiled floor. The servants of the palace fanned out to form an honor guard and the courtiers thronged, murmuring, into place behind them, avid to observe every moment of the meeting between the two men at the center of today’s event.

  “His most august and gracious Majesty, the Lord Edward, king of England, France, Ireland, and Wales. Duke of Cornwall…” As the endless titles were recited, Charles, duke of Burgundy, rose, as did his duchess, and stood waiting while Edward Plantagenet, his brother, Duke Richard of Gloucester, and their party of supporters entered the vast space that w
as the Presence chamber of the Prinsenhof. His face devoid of expression, Edward paced toward the distant dais, his brother by his side. The king’s doublet of silver-gray Flanders velvet was slashed in the sleeves and on the body to allow a cream silk undershirt to puff out pleasingly from beneath. A black velvet cloak lined with red cloth of gold flowed from his shoulders to his heels, and his hose also were smooth black velvet, plain and unadorned, except that he, too, wore the blue garter of Saint George below his left knee. Edward’s hair—dark gold, since it was winter—lay curling on his shoulders, loose and thick, and his head was encircled by a massive but plain gold band, its only ornaments Plantagenet leopards and stylized lilies. It was the single key to who he was, and was being acknowledged as: the Sovereign Lord of England, and of France.

  Duke Charles narrowed his eyes for a moment at the graceful sight advancing toward him. Was it fair that one man should be given so much physical beauty? Perhaps this fact alone was the source of all of Edward’s travails? The duke swallowed a sigh and shook himself slightly at the absurdity of the thought. So be it. Let them gamble with fate once more.

  Bowing to Edward from the waist, Charles stepped forward and spoke first. “Your Majesty, at last we meet.”

  Edward bowed too, a little less low, in a rustle of expensive cloth. In the air was the scent of powdered orris root. “It has been too long, brother. How delightful it is to be here in your enchanting city once more. Truly, Brugge is most noble and this, your palace, one of its greatest adornments. How charmed we are to stand here in this place of such happy memories.”

  Not even the shadow of irony entered Edward’s tone as, smilingly, his sister gave him her hand to kiss. “Dearest Duchess. We find you well?” It was effortless to switch back to the speech of a royal personage—that person he’d been for nearly ten years.

  The duchess curtsied in reply. “Very well. I thank Your Majesty for asking.”

  Her eyes were cast down to the flagged floor, but Margaret glanced up quickly at her brother when Charles was momentarily distracted. I have news, said that look.

  Edward raised his eyebrows, but could not reply for, at that moment, the steward of the Prinsenhof was bowing him toward a Chair of State. Heavily carved, richly gilded, the chair was placed on a small riser on the very top of the dais itself, thus ensuring Edward sat fractionally higher than his host and hostess.

  Optimism wound a diamond-bright thread around Edward Plantagenet’s heart. Perhaps all truly would be well? Charles’s reception was that of a duke to a reigning monarch, but the king had eaten confusion and disappointment for more than two months. The richness of this feast today was still suspect until it was consumed and paid for. And there was Anne to think of. Never forget Anne.

  After a nod from her husband, the duchess spoke out clearly for all the court to hear. “We have an old friend for you to meet, Your Majesty.”

  “An old friend—how delightful that will be.” Airy court phrases, so long perfected among them all. But would former ways of speaking, and seeing, be sufficient now?

  Edward turned toward the door of the Presence chamber as it opened again, and this time his smile was deeply amused, as was that of the man who advanced toward him up the length of the chamber. “Louis! Or perhaps more properly in this city of yours, Lodewijk, my dear friend. Has it truly been an age since last we saw each other? Time moves so fast, I swear it only feels like days. I look forward to another hunt together, when there is more time.”

  Louis de Gruuthuse smiled and bowed as he made his way up the hall. “An age, Your Majesty? Surely not. But how delightful it would be to ride out with you once more. Under easier circumstances than hunts of the past, of course.”

  Edward laughed, freely and loudly. “Ah, my friend, how pleasing it is to see you. Again.” The last word was heavily ironic, its significance lost on all but a very few in the Presence chamber.

  Charles turned to Edward. “I asked my governor to return to us from the north. We have need of his advice since Louis de Valois is spreading his net to catch us all up.” There, it was said. The time for pretty speeches was past.

  Edward nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, there is much to be said and much to speak of. But we are all friends here, and comrades. Louis de Valois is nothing to us if we act. Together.”

  Dread crawled over Margaret of Burgundy’s body like a biting insect. The men were frowning and the room itself had become somber as the brilliant day outside dimmed.

  “Your Majesty? Your Grace?” Margaret rose, in clear breach of protocol since the king had not indicated that she should. “I should be pleased to withdraw, sire. The palace has many unexpected guests at this time of the year”—Margaret flicked a glance at Edward—“and I can see that Your Majesty and the duke, my husband”—she curtsied formally to Charles—“have much to discuss that cannot concern me or any other member of my sex.”

  Charles was momentarily distracted by the intensity of the look that passed between sister and brother as the duchess spoke. However, Margaret was right. Family reunions must play second fiddle today to much weightier concerns.

  “Come, Duchess, allow a long-absent brother to escort you.” Bowing to the duke, Edward rose and picked up his sister’s hand. As they processed down the hall, their backs to the dais, there was a precious moment in which to speak to each other.

  “Is she safe?”

  Margaret nodded. “Yes. The bishop was… interrupted last night before he could do anything but terrify her. However, he died. The city is frantic looking for him.”

  Margaret’s voice was unemotional and Edward resisted glancing at her, but a wave of strangeness prickled his skin. Staring straight ahead, he spoke from the side of his mouth. “Gossip as we arrived said he was missing.”

  Margaret smiled, left and right. That took effort. “He is. He was… removed. After he died.”

  “Where is the body?”

  Margaret laughed merrily and patted her brother’s hand, as if he had said something witty. “We will speak of this later. Meanwhile, tell me the truth. Is Anne the old king’s natural daughter?”

  They had reached the door and it was opened soundlessly by the door-wards. Edward slewed a glance at his sister, profoundly disconcerted. There was no time to ask how she knew, so he nodded. “Yes. Tell Anne I love her. She has my protection—she is not to doubt that.”

  Margaret swept down into a curtsy as the king bowed. “And mine, brother. And mine.”

  “Where is the monk who accused her? I want to question him myself.”

  Margaret rose and smiled brilliantly at the king. “And so do I, as does Charles. He will be brought to the Prinsenhof later in the day. Then we shall see.”

  The duchess was engulfed by her suite of ladies. Many a discreet glance was cast toward the distractingly handsome king, her brother, as the party of women left the anteroom of the Presence chamber, but, for once in his life, Edward was completely oblivious of female admiration.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Brother? I am so truly sorry to disturb you…” The sharp rap on the door jamb was followed by a creak as the cell door opened.

  Agonistes could hear fear in the abbot’s wavering voice and decided to ignore it. Prayer would take him away from the earthly concerns of this corrupted world and all its servants. He bent his head lower, clasped his joined hands tighter, and raised his voice.

  “Holy Lady Mary, stainless and uncorrupted Mother of our Savior, look down on your sinful servant this day. Help me, I beseech you—”

  “Brother!” A hand descended on his shoulder. The hand was heavy and the shoulder frail. When had he last eaten? Agonistes slumped beneath that mortal weight. He was tired, so very tired. He ceased to pray. Slowly, he opened his eyes, though it took some time to focus on the anxious face looming over his.

  “I would not disturb you but there are matters we must discuss. Urgent matters.” The abbot could not help himself; his breathing was shallow and his tone at least an octave higher than it mig
ht normally be.

  Agonistes understood. Years as a courtier had taught him much, even if he avoided remembering. He, in the grip of doing the Lord’s work, had slandered a good friend of the duchess and she, the former Lady Margaret of England, was powerful. The monk smiled. “Brother, why fear for the future of the mortal body when the eternal soul is all that matters?”

  Was it that lipless smile or the fatalistic tone that ramped the abbot’s nervous state to panic? He breathed deeply through his nose, a curious whistling sound. He hoped he sounded firm. “However, dearest Brother, I must speak plainly. You are our guest, our cherished brother in the sight of the Lord.” The abbot swallowed; this was a little flowery, even for him. “And I must care for your mortal state, even if you do not.”

  Agonistes heaved himself up from his knees and stood, swaying, beside the narrow plank cot. His interest in playing this game was nonexistent. “By which you mean, Brother Abbot, you fear for the mortal future of your house if I remain beneath its roof?”

  The abbot was offended and, yes, resentful. Their lady duchess had always been a most generous patron—witness the new painted window paid for by Margaret and dedicated to Saint George, the premier saint of England—but he very much hoped the close relationship between his order and the court of Burgundy was of lesser importance than his duty. “Brother, I have prayed most ardently through this last night and God has brought me his precious guidance on this… matter. He has told me that I must think of the welfare of all in this house. Souls and bodies, both. But my care begins with you.”

  Fine and gilded lies. Agonistes shrugged. “I am ready to return to Paris, Brother, if that is what you are trying to ask of me. Do not distress yourself. We all have our duty.” In truth, the monk would be relieved to leave Brugge, especially as during his earlier prayers he’d heard the tumult surrounding the triumphant entry of Edward Plantagenet into the city. Agonistes closed his eyes and ears at even the memory of that sound. And his heart. He would not willingly allow that adulterer, the cause of so much suffering in his life, into his mind in any form.