A little calmer? A masterly understatement. During the preceding day, as Edward, Duke Charles, Richard, Louis de Gruuthuse, and Hastings had gone over the intelligence regarding the placement of French troops, the current situation with Warwick and Clarence in England, and the amounts of men, money, and material Edward needed to retake his realm, even they could not entirely escape the rising babble of conjecture that the bishop’s continuing absence had caused at court.
“Did you hear that the monk has fled?” Edward bared his teeth in a very unpleasant smile. “He can’t be completely mad, after all.”
Richard twitched a grin at his brother, but remained troubled. “Do you think they’ll find where Margaret has… I mean, say they find the body, do you believe that a corpse bleeds in the presence of its murderer? Do you think that’s possible, brother?”
Edward was searching for his sword, but he swung around and laughed. “Richard, I’m constantly surprised at you, I really am. Margaret didn’t murder the bishop and neither did Anne. Our sister has been very clear on that. The man had a fit and died. That happens sometimes to the gross in body, as well you know. By the way…” Richard, like his brother, was now dressed for riding. “Yes?”
“Your hiccups have gone.”
Anne awoke swollen-eyed, aching, and cold. The reeking tallow candle she’d been left with had long since flickered out and the floor of the stone room was cold and hard as lake ice.
She sat up, shivering. Frigid air burned her throat and her lungs as she breathed. The shock of it was bracing and she found she was angry. Furious, in fact. Rage propelled Anne to her feet and she ran to the door, kicking it and hitting it with all her force.
“You! Open the door. Now!” She would not allow herself to think, her mind focused on making something, anything, happen.
There was a click as a key entered the lock; the latch was moving.
Anne gasped and stepped back.
“I thank you. My friend, the duchess, will be most pleased.” She heard the quaver in her voice and tried to suppress it, tried to sound proud and confident, but then it was too much—her eyes filled with tears, blurring the small stone world that had become her compass.
“And my sister will be most grateful you are safe. As, indeed, am I. Very glad.”
Edward.
In two strides he had her scooped up hard against his body and she felt, as he did, each of their hearts beating against their prison of bone. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I could not come before this. Hush, hush now.” Anne’s sobs came from deep within her chest. Edward held her, soothed her, rocked her. She clung to him like a vine. “There, oh, there…” He was kissing the tears as they ran down her face, kissing the side of her mouth, her mouth itself as she tried to speak.
“I was so afraid. And I had such dreams, Edward. Such dreams of fire and death and…”
Her terror was so palpable that the king felt it pass from her body to his like a physical thing. “But I’m here now. We’re together.”
Anne was suddenly stricken. Was this a dream too? She looked down at their joined hands, felt the warmth in his fingers. Looking up into his eyes, she smiled with relief. “Yes. We are together.” And then she took his face between her hands and kissed him softly.
He tightened his arms around her but she shook her head. “I must go home, Edward. As soon as I can.” But she allowed him to hold her, encompassed, just a little longer. It comforted them both to stand like this, no thoughts, no words. They were each made stronger in that dreamlike warmth.
Then Anne stepped back, breaking the circle of Edward’s arms, and looked up into the face of the man she loved so dearly. “I need a horse—and an escort.”
Edward nodded. “They’re waiting for you. Margaret has arranged it. I will take you to your home and my dear brother-inlaw will be none the wiser.” His hand touched her face and one finger traced the outline of cheek and mouth and chin, resting on the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat.
“But you cannot stay at your farm, my darling. You must pack lightly and be ready to leave. Margaret will see that the place is looked after.”
Anne frowned. “And if that is not my choice?”
Patiently, Edward took one of Anne’s hands and led her toward the door. He peered out into the passage beyond—it was empty, apart from Richard. The duke smiled at Anne. She smiled back, distracted, as the king said, “I need to know you are safe. I can arrange that. And then, once I am in London and all is secured, we can be together. Properly.”
The beating of Anne’s blood was like a drum, a distant fluttering drum.
“No.”
Edward Plantagenet turned back to the woman he loved so very much and his eyes were bleak. “Anne, please do not be foolish in this. You are subject to my will as your sovereign. I command this. Our son must be safe, and if you will not—”
He had gone too far. Anne was a proud being and the feelings between them were very tangled. “Command? Command is not a word for lovers. It is a word for followers. And slaves.”
The temperature of the room dropped and the candle that Edward now held flickered in his hand, as if in a violent wind. The light steadied, but the king found a very different woman staring at him. Anne was taller, suddenly, and the flame of the candle found an answer in her eyes.
“In this last night, when I thought I’d been abandoned, I came to understand many things. I go willingly with you, Edward, or I do not go at all. You do not have the means to force me. I am not a serf to be picked up, used, and put away when it suits your whim.”
The king was astonished. And then angry. Did Anne not understand just how much he had to deal with, how desperately he needed a clear mind if he was to accomplish what must be done? She and the boy must be made safe, then he could focus, fight, and come back for her later. “Anne, this is foolish. Please do as I say?”
He had not intended to plead with her, but, astonishingly, his voice broke. And the marble statue in front of him turned back into the woman he loved.
“Once I am home again, I shall consider what is best. No!” She held up her hand to stop him as he reached for her—she would change her mind if he held her; they both knew that. “This is my choice now, Edward. Not yours. And I will ride home alone with the escort tonight.”
She had dismissed him, declined his help, and would say nothing more. Anguished, furious, and silent, Edward Plantagenet bundled Anne de Bohun into one of the duchess’s riding cloaks and hurried the girl through the palace and down to the duke’s stables. Richard loped beside them as they ran. There was a palfrey waiting in the yard, a small spirited mare, and four men dressed in Burgundian livery. The moment had come. And still Anne said nothing.
Standing with her at the shoulder of the horse, Edward spoke first. “Anne, can’t you not see—”
“Shush.” Anne placed a finger on Edward Plantagenet’s mouth. She was staring up at him and they were close, so close. But she shook her head.
Edward was proud also. He would not beg again. The former king of England placed his hands around Anne de Bohun’s waist and swung her up into the saddle. With his own fingers he tied the riding cloak at her throat and insisted she wear the red riding gloves lined with catskin so thoughtfully provided by his sister for her friend.
Because others were watching, they did not kiss, but the last look between them was a long one.
Then Anne turned the little horse’s head toward the stable gates and tightened the reins. The mare was a well-fed animal, impatient to be off, and, being given the signal by its rider, sprang forward so that the men accompanying Anne had to scramble to form up behind her as she led them out of the Prinsenhof.
Edward’s last sight of Anne as she disappeared into the deep surrounding night was the wave of one scarlet hand, then the great gates groaned closed and the portcullis came down. Dread seized him. How long would it be before they met again?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“I can hear you thinking, Margaret.”
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br /> The duchess held her breath; she thought she’d successfully pretended sleep. She sighed and turned over to face her husband. The lighted candle beside the bed was a small star in the vast dark room.
“I cannot sleep, Charles.”
The duke smiled faintly. “Conscience, perhaps?”
For a moment Margaret couldn’t find words and her heart filled her mouth.
“Conscience? No. Too much of the last marchpane subtlety. You know how greedy I am for sweet things. Perhaps it’s a sign I’m breeding?”
The duke sat up against the bolster and looked at his wife. “You’re shameless, Margaret. I know she’s gone. And I also know what you did with Bishop Odo.”
There was a moment’s charged silence before the duchess forced her tongue to move, forced herself to find words. “But… Aseef cannot talk or—”
The duke nodded and his amused expression became severe. “Or hear. You are correct, my dear. But Aseef was my servant before you were ever my wife. True, he has no speech and he is deaf, but he can write quite well; I had him taught. It is one of the reasons his loyalty to me is so strong. I gave him the means to communicate. Ah, you didn’t know that?”
Margaret closed her eyes. “What will you do, Charles?”
The duke got out of bed, pulling a fur coverlet around his naked body, and hurried over to the chimney breast, cursing under his breath at the cold. The fire was nearly out. Energetically, he set about rebuilding a blaze.
“Charles? Don’t play with me.” The duchess sat up, fear sharpening her voice.
“Do? I shall do nothing, wife. You have done what I could not be seen to do. And saved me a very difficult decision, on two counts.”
The relief was astonishing. It washed through Margaret’s body as if her blood had been replaced by sherbet. Tingling, shivering, she joined her husband by the fire, wrapped in a heavy blanket hauled from the gigantic bed. The blanket trailed behind her over the rushes on the floor, whispering, as if it had a secret to tell.
“Two counts?”
“Yes.” The duke smiled at his wife. “Come closer to the fire. Warm yourself.”
Margaret held up her palms to the flames; her hands glowed from the flickering light behind them. Her husband measured his fingers against hers: both their hands shone blood scarlet now.
“Aseef told me that Odo died from a fit. Is that true?”
Margaret nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“And you made Aseef take the body away. How did he avoid being seen?”
Margaret shook her head. That night—only a day since—was a blurred nightmare. “It was very late and the palace was asleep. We stripped the body, Anne and I.” She shuddered as she remembered the filthy, lice-ridden undergarments; the fat-larded body; the weight of him, and the stench of flesh unwashed for years and years, as they moved the corpse to undress it, then clothe it again. “I dressed him in some of your clothes. They were all I could find quickly. Old ones, I promise you”—she added the detail defensively—“but they were too small. We had to rip them up the back. We wrapped him up in a cloak. Then Aseef carried him out, over his shoulder, as if he were too drunk to stand.”
“Where did you put the body? Aseef has not told me. But then, I haven’t asked him.”
The duchess shrugged guiltily. “I remembered the crypt beneath the great chapel.”
The duke nodded. “A judicious choice. Who would think to disturb the sleep of my ancestors looking for a missing bishop?”
The duchess was close to tears. “I didn’t know which tomb to choose. It was very dark, but one had a damaged lid and we put him inside that. It made a terrible noise when we moved the top aside. The loudest sound I’ve ever heard in my life and the worst—I can hear it now.”
The duke picked up Margaret’s free hand. “What happened then?” In the semi-dark of the bed chamber it was impossible to read the expression in the duke’s eyes. The duchess shrugged unhappily. She was ashamed and frightened.
“It was necessary to make the guard think he’d seen the bishop leave. My body maid, Estella—”
“Ah yes. It seems her loyalty to you is very great. She entertained the guard?”
The duchess nodded. No point lying now. “Yes. He’s very young, Charles, and gullible. And I don’t want him punished. She kept him as long as she could. In the end, Aseef returned to Anne only a moment before the guard himself came back.” She swallowed. “Anne dressed Aseef in Odo’s clothes. He put the cowl up and… walked out of there.”
The duke guffawed until tears streaked his face. “But… he’s… black. He’s a blackamoor! Ah, this is too much.” That set him laughing again.
The duchess was defensive. “Well, it was very dark in the passage so the guard couldn’t see properly. Estella had taken the torch.”
“Estella took the torch, did she? Of course.” The duke sighed happily. “You really don’t understand the concept of obedience, do you? I must see what I can do about that, wife.”
Margaret truly relaxed for the first time in this long day. She leaned against her husband’s broad chest. “Well, you shouldn’t have married a Plantagenet, should you, if you’d wanted obedience?”
He laughed again and kissed her, held her close. They stood together, watching the flames.
“What did you mean, Charles, that I saved you two difficult decisions?”
Charles was caressing Margaret’s naked waist.
“I had to let Odo see Anne. We couldn’t have an accused witch in the city without the Church having its say on the matter. But I couldn’t work out what to do next. How to get him away from her. How to get her out of the city. You solved that for me. But now…”
The fire was raging, sending out real heat. Margaret looked up into her husband’s eyes. “Yes, Charles?”
The duke dropped the fur coverlet from his shoulders and stood naked in front of her. “Now, I want to forget all about Anne de Bohun, the bishop, and how we’re going to deal with all of this. Until tomorrow.” In one swift moment, he pulled the blanket from around his wife’s shoulders and she was in his arms, nothing between his skin and hers. “And you’re going to help me do that. It’s your first lesson in obedience.”
“And shall I need many, many more if I’m to subdue my rebellious nature, husband?”
“You shall indeed. And I shall enjoy teaching you your proper place. Beneath me, here and now…”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The farm was in darkness. The man stood at the kitchen door and knocked gently. “Mistress?”
A shutter scraped open above the man’s head. He stepped back and looked up. There was just enough light to see her face.
“Leif?” The terror of a strange voice in the night ebbed, to be replaced by guilt. This was normal, however; she was dreaming again. Anne saw Leif’s face often in dreams, and she would wake soon. Wake into the nightmare her life had become.
Below her, the big man smiled. “Yes, lady. No need to be afraid. Will you let me in?”
Anne shook her head to clear it and, as if for the first time, felt the cold iron of the latch on her window, saw her breath as it floated in the still night. This was no dream. She was awake. Leif was real. “Yes. Of course. Stay there!”
Leif gazed up at the woman whose face had haunted him all these long months in the north. Faint light glimmered. It caught the lines of her face, the curve of one shoulder as she leaned forward to throw the shutter back—being careful to crouch a little behind the window’s sill so that he would not see she was naked. Her hair was unbound, like a child’s.
Leif swallowed hard. Anne was alive. And seemingly unhurt. The tiny hammer at his throat was warm as he touched it in silent thanks to the God of War for this unexpected kindness.
“Yes, lady. I’ll wait.” He spoke softly. He would always wait for her.
Anne nodded and ducked back inside the room, pulling the shutter closed as gently as she could so as not to wake Deborah or little Edward. She padded bac
k to her bed, shivering. Groping along the wall in the dark, she found her kirtle, an undershift, and her shawl. They would have to do. Her feet were cold, but bare feet would be silent in the sleeping house and that was good.
A moment later, Anne slid the three stout bolts on the kitchen door from their keepers and lifted the latch.
“Lady Anne.” Leif bowed to her and ducked beneath the lintel. She didn’t catch the expression on his face, but her voice quavered when she replied.
“You are welcome in my house, Leif. So welcome. I’ll make a light so we can see each other.”
Leif watched Anne as she tried to apply flint to the wick of a pottery oil lamp. After three attempts he took it from her and coaxed a small bright star from the wick. “Sit, lady. On the settle. I’ll restart the fire. It’s cold in here.”
Anne nodded and sat while Leif took the great poker to the ashes of the fire, stirring them vigorously and blowing hard until he found live coals buried deep. He fed the small flames with twigs and a little straw. Warmth bloomed and rosy light transformed the kitchen, winking on copper pans and gilding the edges of the pewter chargers on the cupboard. It was a cozy, homely place—beautiful in its simple usefulness.
Anne saw nothing of this, however, as shame, joy, and confusion pulled at her like a trinity of wolves. She had no right to this kindness and she would not take advantage of what he felt for her. How could she do that when the substantial shadow of Edward Plantagenet was still such a huge part of her life?
Leif turned and smiled at her. “Room on the settle for me?”
Anne found words for simple things. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re hungry. Are you hungry, Leif?” She could hear herself prattling; she sounded like a loon! Action was a remedy for such foolishness.
She jumped up as he sat down and hurried over to the three-legged pot sitting in the fireplace. It was half full of good winter stock simmered from bones and scraps of meat and the last of the stored root vegetables. This soup was one of the staples of Anne’s kitchen, and each evening barley was added, along with wild garlic, and then the ashes banked high so the broth would cook overnight, ready for break-fast in the morning.
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