Anne lifted the iron lid and dipped in a ladle, then poured the thick, savory liquid into a wooden bowl. She carried the soup to Leif, realizing again, with something of a shock, how very big he was. The work of hauling ropes and straining at the tiller of his cog had given Leif a broad chest and massive arms and shoulders; even seated, he dwarfed Anne’s standing height. And she could smell him: healthy, warm, male, musk and spice. He was the captain of a trading vessel, and when he moved there came the scent of cloves and quills of cinnamon—the ghosts of previous cargoes. His scent sharpened her sense of loss.
“I have bread, also. Yesterday’s, but still good.”
“Bread would be excellent. If it’s Deborah’s?”
They both smiled. Try as she might, Anne had no skill at kneading bread and her loaves were always heavier than her foster mother’s.
“Yes, she made the bread. Don’t worry, I’ve not had my hands anywhere near it.” A round loaf and a little pot of rendered goose fat were quickly found.
Anne hesitated, then sat down beside her guest; watched, without speaking, as Leif tore a thick piece off the loaf and dipped it in the goose fat. That task accomplished, he spooned soup into his mouth, glancing quickly at Anne. She was tired and the circles beneath her eyes spoke of trouble. Or fear. He didn’t like to see that.
“This is very good.” Leif smiled at Anne. She nodded, but would not look at him as she fed more wood, unnecessarily, into the flames.
Leif ate steadily for a little longer, then, sighing, put the bowl down and turned to her. “I don’t blame you, lady. You had to go with the king. They told me you had no choice.”
Anne ducked her head in a vain attempt to hide sudden tears. When she tried to speak it was in a choking whisper.
“I’m sorry, Leif. So sorry. I deserted you.”
He shook his head, a smile glimmering. “No. You didn’t. He did, though.” Between outrage and astonishment, Anne couldn’t speak, but Leif laughed. Actually laughed. “When I got over it, I understood. It’s what I would have done. If I’d been him.”
At that moment, little Edward ran into the kitchen in his nightgown shouting “Leif!” and hurled himself at the big man like a cannonball. The sailor shoved his bowl away and gathered the child into his arms and up against his massive chest.
“Well now, Boy, I thought you’d have forgotten me.” Boy was Leif’s nickname for Anne’s son.
Edward wriggled his way up the giant’s torso until his arms were locked around the seaman’s neck. The child shook his head solemnly. “No. Not ever or ever. I love you. Good to have you home, Leif.” He patted the big man’s face and they both laughed.
Deborah entered the kitchen in time to hear the last of this little speech and saw the wistful expression on Anne’s face as she gazed at the man and the child. She clapped her hands quite sharply. The trio looked up, three startled faces.
“What are you doing out of bed, young man?”
“I heard them talking, Deborah. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry, but you really should be in your bed, child.”
Edward started to protest vigorously, then changed his tack. “Read me a story, Leif? Then I’ll go back to bed.” Such shining innocence; such emotional cunning!
Leif laughed, and so did Anne. “I’d like that, Boy, except I can’t read. I can tell you one, though.”
Anne interrupted. “Let Edward stay here, Deborah. You too. Isn’t it nice that Leif’s back and we’re all together again?”
The old woman smiled at her foster daughter but said nothing. In truth, it was good that this kind and dependable man had returned, but perhaps it would make things more complicated for Anne. Was that a good thing?
Anne kissed her son. “Come, Edward, you can sit here next to Leif for just a moment. Would you like some soup?” Anne put a small bowl of soup in front of her son as Deborah searched for something in the shadows of the kitchen.
“What’s lost, Deborah?”
“The warming pan. I just want to heat the child’s bed before he goes back up. It’s very cold. Ah… here it is.” Deborah shoveled hot ash into the hinged metal pan, talking over her shoulder as she worked. “You be quick, Edward, because you’ll need a big sleep. Long day for all of us tomorrow.”
The sailor cut off a lump of bread for the little boy and showed him how to dip it neatly in the liquid and convey it to his mouth without dripping.
“Well done. Now, another bite…”
The child yawned hugely, exposing the half-chewed food in his mouth. His mother did her best to sound severe. “Edward, I’ve told you before. Hand over your mouth.”
The little boy giggled and exhibited the contents of his mouth again with a big grin. That set them all off and soon the three adults were laughing so hard, tears streaked their faces. Then Edward yawned again, his eyes fluttering as he rubbed them with his fists.
“Come, sweet babe,” said Deborah. “Enough of this. We’ll warm the sheets together. Then Wissy will come.”
“Leif too?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Now, tuck up warm, Boy.”
The big man leaned down and placed the small boy carefully on his feet again, kissing him warmly. A visitor at that moment would have thought them a family—mother, father, child, and grandmother. Anne caught Leif’s eye and seemed about to say something, but then turned to her son. “Don’t I get a kiss?”
She hugged the child hard, and then, hand in hand, Deborah and little Edward left the kitchen, singing as they went. “Up the stairs, up the stairs to Bedlingford…”
There was silence in the kitchen now, except for the crackle of the fire. Anne added more wood and poked hard at the ash bed, avoiding the man’s eyes.
“He’s grown. He’ll be a tall man.” Leif did not add, Like his father.
“What’s all this?” He gestured around the kitchen; there were roped coffers and piles of possessions stacked in the shadows. “You’re leaving the farm?”
Anne half turned away, nodding.
“Why?”
“It is my choice.”
Leif got up and took the poker from Anne’s hands. It was the same one that had killed Edward Plantagenet’s messenger.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
Anne shook her head, tears close to the surface. “We must leave Brugge as soon as possible.”
Leif digested that statement without comment. Then, throwing another log from the autumn trimmings of the orchard onto the fire, he gently turned Anne’s head toward his. She could not escape. “I heard the story in town. That’s why I came here. Where will you go?”
Anne dropped her gaze from his. “South. Italy, perhaps. We will start again, Deborah and Edward and me.”
The words were brave, but Anne’s loneliness touched Leif’s heart. He said nothing and it was she who broke the moment, taking the empty bowls from the hearth. Anne returned and sat down beside him on the settle, her eyes far away. Defeated.
He reached over and gently covered both her hands with one of his own. “You don’t have to do this alone, Anne.”
She looked up at the giant man with the kind eyes and it was too much. Deep, wrenching sobs tore from her chest. Instinctively, Leif reached for the girl and this time Anne did not resist; she allowed herself to rest against him as he rubbed her back gently, rhythmically. After a time, she gulped herself into silence and leaned against his shoulder, numb.
“Lady, I’m here to take you home. If you’ll let me.”
Anne’s swollen eyes flew open. “Home?”
Leif nodded. “England. I reclaimed the Lady Margaret from the pool of Delft and she’s moored at Sluys. The tradesmen who repaired her were honest. You were right.” He smiled gently. There was silence for a moment. Then Anne sat up, worry creasing her brow.
“But how can we sail to England? The war is—”
“About to begin in earnest, I’d say. Talk in Brugge was that Duke Charles will help the king at last. But that won’t happen quickly, so w
e can beat him back. If you’ll trust me to take you there.”
Leif made it all sound so easy. The heartache and confusion were blown away on the fresh wind of common sense. Tears spiked Anne’s lashes.
“I told the king that I must choose what was best for us all—little Edward and Deborah and me—and choose I will.” She blinked hard and shook the tears away. “Can you really take us to London?”
The Dane stood up so abruptly he hit his head on the low brass candelabra. “Ow! Never mind! Why do you think Sir Mathew hasn’t seen the Lady Margaret before now? Yes, of course I can take you home.” Deborah had reentered the kitchen unnoticed and stood in the shadows. She heard the unspoken end to the sentence: and take you for mine, as well.
Thor’s servant, the servant of war, had returned in another guise to Anne. Her daughter had better be careful or she would unleash a mighty force in her life. No fight between nations, no difference in class could ever be as strong as overwhelming love. The love this man felt for Anne de Bohun.
Part Three
THE
RETURN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
As the darkest part of winter settled over France there was a monster born in Paris. A two-headed child with three arms, one attached to its chest, and hands that, it was said, resembled the claws of a lobster. It was a bad omen, a very bad omen, and the priests, monks, and bishops all called for national repentance if this work of the Devil was not to be the portent of more horrors to come.
Dread crept through the exhausted, starving kingdom of France—a pale, slow disease compounded of unreason and gathering panic. Louis de Valois could smell it, could almost see the miasma, as even his court became infected.
“I must view this creature. You, too, Brother, and tell me what it means.”
Brother Agonistes raised a tortured face. Not long returned from Brugge, he was kneeling at the foot of the dais in the Presence chamber, three shallow steps below the Chair of Estate in which the king sat. After his long journey south through the iron-cold land, he was thinner than ever, dirtier than ever, and his stench was even worse. Truly, thought Louis, he smells like a nine-day corpse.
Agonistes breathed like an old, abused mule and his hand shook as it sketched a cross in the air between Louis and himself. “Brother King, I have no special knowledge of what this thing might mean. It is a living creature. They say it sucks well from its mother’s paps and is strong. Perhaps it is God who has sent it to us, rather than Satan.”
Louis clucked his tongue impatiently. “That cannot be. Our Creator does not make monstrous children, for we are made in His sacred image. No, this is a sign. I am certain of it.”
Brother Agonistes shrugged wearily. “The king, my brother, knows more than I can possibly understand, since he is anointed by God.” The man’s fingers crept to the rosary slung through his rope belt. He closed his eyes and silently began to tell the beads, now oblivious, it seemed, to the presence of the monarch.
Louis felt no affront, for the behavior of this man was always extraordinary. For a moment the king forgot his fear of the monster in wondering what the monk saw when he prayed so intensely. “You are as devout as ever, Brother Agonistes. But also greatly changed. Are you ill?”
Without speaking, the monk shook his head, the rosary beads clicking through his fingers with relentless rhythm.
“Well then, do you fear death, perhaps, that you mortify yourself so greatly?”
The monk’s eyes flew open and he glared at the king. “Yes, I fear death. As you should also. Sin is the stinking, loathsome burden we both carry. Lust has been my downfall in the past and now, with the sight of that woman in Brugge, the memory of it has reared up once more to besmirch me. That woman you sent me to, brother.” Agonistes sounded almost reproachful. Louis was so astonished by the monk’s presumption that he forgot to speak, as the monk continued. “And yet, brother, it pleased you and the Lord to bestow this task upon me, therefore I am grateful for the privations given to me in this matter. I hope they are pleasing in the Lord’s sight, and yours also, brother King. And the woman will have been burned by now—if that was God’s will.” He crossed himself solemnly.
Automatically, Louis mimicked the action.
“And you, brother, you, too, must put away the sins of this Earth if you are to govern your kingdom for God, and in his name. Pride in this war will bring you down, for it is the vice of kings and the greatest sin of all. Pray with me now that we may both be cleansed.”
Opened to their widest extent, the monk’s eyes were bleak pools of emptiness. Louis felt consumed by the horror of eternity they contained. Suddenly, Agonistes collapsed onto his belly, hauling himself toward the king as if he were a worm or a slug, or some other loathsome crawling thing. Louis reared back, panicked, as the man arrived at the dais, where he tugged insistently at the hem of the king’s gown and seemed about to climb up his legs, hand over filthy hand.
“Grant me the solace of joint prayer on the matter of the monster, I beseech you. Only then may I be of greater use to you, and the kingdom of France, in uncovering the Lord’s intentions for this creature.” Stifled by the stench wafting upward, Louis covered his mouth and nose with one hand and waved urgently for the guard to escort Agonistes from his presence. Instantly, the monk was engulfed by a tide of armed men and half dragged, half shoved from the king’s sight. Louis shuddered with relief yet he remained convinced that the monk conveyed God’s thoughts directly to him, the Lord’s own mortal deputy on Earth. Sometimes, however, the stench of the man encouraged a certain confusion in his mind. Why must holiness equate with dirt? The Bible did not speak of the Lord being filthy. What if Agonistes were not a sanctified messenger at all, merely a madman?
The arrival of more guards interrupted the king’s musings. They had a gaunt black crow in their midst: Olivier le Dain. The escort surged away and the Presence chamber doors swung closed. Bowing, le Dain advanced toward the king cautiously until he stood at the foot of the dais.
“Well?” The king sounded testy. That was dangerous.
Le Dain gulped. “We have found it, Your Majesty.” Unnerved by a basilisk glare, le Dain sank quickly to his knees.
“And?”
“It has been brought here, to the palace. Its mother also.”
“Very well.” Louis waved a hand and le Dain took this for an instruction. On his feet again, he backed the entire length of the room at speed, bowing so deeply from time to time that the crown of his head touched the floor. An amused smile stretched the wizened muscles of the king’s face as he watched le Dain scuttle away. He rarely smiled, certainly not at le Dain.
The barber gagged back the vomit of fear. That terrible smile! Hastily he jerked one of the great doors open as if it weighed no more than a gauze curtain. “Bring them!” The barber bellowed the order and was comforted by the fear on the faces of the courtiers in the anteroom. Reflected power, like reflected light, could still sear the eyes of the unwary.
A muttering began within the crowd and the clotted mass of court functionaries parted in one smooth movement to allow passage to a small frightened girl carrying a large basket.
The courtiers closed in behind her as she walked forward among a guard of men much taller than herself. She was decently clad in a woolen high-waisted gown and her head was covered in the white linen coif of a married woman. As she was brought closer to le Dain, he saw she was not quite as young as she had seemed at a distance; rather she was sixteen or seventeen, though very small for her age. This was the mother of the monster.
“Let me see it.” Le Dain sounded as remote as the king—imitation of his master was a learned knack from his early days at court—and the girl visibly paled. With trembling hands she placed the basket on the floor and drew back the small blanket covering its contents. For a moment, le Dain was confused. These were two healthy babies that he saw, lying side by side, still somehow asleep among the racket, and breathing peacefully. But then the young mother gently drew the covering dow
n and the full horror was exposed.
Eager courtiers pressed forward to see what lay in the basket. “Keep them back!” the barber shouted to the guards, who instantly responded, lowering their pikes.
Was it le Dain’s harsh tone, or the outraged protests from some of the greatest grandees in the kingdom, that woke the thing in the basket? It began to wail like any other hungry child, and those who caught a glimpse of the basket’s contents told how, miraculously, each of its two faces was as beautiful as an angel’s, with curling black hair and eyes bluer than a summer lake.
“Enough,” le Dain ordered. “Cover this… thing. The king is waiting.” The mother bent to the basket and tenderly replaced the covering, whispering half words, as every mother does to her child, as she raised it from the floor. Le Dain noticed dark patches had spread across the bodice of her dress. The child’s crying had caused the girl’s milk to let down. Unwanted, unexpected, le Dain experienced a rush of pity. “Here.” He held out his hand, indicating he would carry the basket. For a moment defiance flared in the girl’s blue eyes—these, at least, she had successfully bequeathed to her child—but then fear chased hopelessness across her face. Bowing her head, she surrendered the basket as her child—or children—screamed inside.
Strangely, as he took the basket from her and rocked it in his arms, the crying stopped and le Dain found himself gazed upon by four blue eyes. Were they—was it—really watching him? Perhaps this was proof of Devil-born powers, or was it just the accidental focus of the newborn? Le Dain, himself a father, was unsure. If this was a demonic creature, perhaps it was the former. But having held his own newborn children in his hands, he felt some certainty it was the latter.
Nodding to the door-wards, he motioned for the girl to follow him into the Presence chamber. “Come. The king is most interested in your monster.”
The Uncrowned Queen Page 27