The Uncrowned Queen (15 page)

The gooseboy was attempting to drive his reluctant charges through to the gates of Delft, yet he was flattered to be called “sir” by this giant man with the kind eyes. “Follow the road along the strand, Meinheer. It's not far. With brisk walking you should be there before they close the gates tonight.”

The big man's wife—a small woman wearing a traveling cloak, her face well hidden by its hood—held out an English penny to the gooseboy and asked, “Is the strand road safe, young master?”

The boy puffed out his chest; he'd never been called “young master” before either. “There is little traffic on the road, dame, in this season. The Lord de Gruuthuse keeps order well in his domain. Wolvesheads do not dare operate between here and s'Gravenhague; he hangs them and leaves them turning in the wind.”

“We thank you.” The woman curtsied and hurried on after her man as he strode toward the line of dunes curving away to the north. It was a cold morning, with a low sky, and the clouds were soft steel-gray. The boy was already late getting his geese to the poulterer, but he stood for a moment and watched as the two figures got smaller and smaller in the distance. He was puzzled. In these times there were few strangers on the roads, and yet this woman was plainly foreign, as was her man. The husband had spoken like a northerner, but his wife's accent had been odd; French
was it, or something else? Hard to tell. Perhaps they were dangerous and he should warn the authorities in Delft? He snorted even as he thought it; would they listen to a gooseboy?

Besides, since when did spies have such gentle ways? The woman's hands had been soft; he felt the tips of her fingers where she'd put the penny into his palm still. He wished he could have seen her face. She'd have to be pretty, surely, since she'd gone to such pains to hide it, probably on her husband's instructions. Or perhaps she was grossly deformed. Was that it? Could she have been a leper, even? The boy shivered, suddenly fearful. Could he really have been touched by a leper?

A sudden hissing and a volley of honks brought him back to reality to see his flock broadly scattered, looking for forage and squabbling over what little there was. Three or four of the biggest birds were pecking at each other, wings up, necks stretched, over the desiccated clumps that remained after the first severe frosts of winter. The noise drove everything else from his mind. His geese did not know that this was the last meal they would taste on earth and, at another time, he might have let them sort it out among themselves, for pity's sake. But now he had to get his flock to the poulterer, and soon, or he'd catch more than leprosy!

Anne heard the boy shouting as he chivvied his flock together. She smiled. How simple that child's life was. So few concerns, so few duties. Just the geese and getting them to market. Her concern, in the meantime, was keeping up with her companion, who was striding ahead. “Leif? Leif! Slow down, please!”

When the sailor stopped, finally, and turned toward Anne, his heart squeezed tight in his chest. The hood of her cloak had blown back in the sea wind and, unusually, she'd not covered her hair beneath it, not even with a kerchief. The unexpected sight of glossy bronze tendrils floating in the breeze hit Leif with the force of a blow. It was a provocation, her uncovered hair, and it was not fair of her, not decent.

Anne was intimidated by Leif's scowl. Perhaps he was still angry with her about the damage to the
Lady Margaret
? Her voice shook when she caught up to him, though she masked it with a cough. “What's wrong, Leif? Are we lost?” She had thought they
were friends, but now something cold touched her. Perhaps she'd been wrong. If so, her situation was much worse than difficult.

“Leif?”

He didn't reply, busying himself with checking the soles of his sea boots.

“Leif, is it the
Lady Margaret
? I thought the men you spoke with seemed honest. I am sure they'll do as you asked in repairing her, and their price seemed reasonable to me.” She had her voice under control now. It was important not to sound afraid.

Leif bit back hard words. How would this girl know honest from dishonest among shipmen? “We'll see,” he said. “Hard to bargain when something must be done fast.” He was gruff, patronizing.

Anne colored; a flash of anger spoke before she could choose the words. “You forget that I managed Sir Mathew's trading fleet with Meinheer Boter in Brugge. I have a little knowledge in this area.”

He was abashed but her defiant glance provoked a self-righteous response. “Cover your hair, woman. If we should meet other souls they will think it strange that my wife goes about so brazenly.”

Anne had never seen the easygoing seaman this way before. “I had no time because you said we must leave so early. And everything was wet from the storm, even my kerchiefs. But if you think I should, ‘husband,' I will do it, certainly.” She attempted a little joke to lighten the atmosphere between them.

“Don't call me that; it is foolish. Worse than foolish.”

Anne saw the hurt in Leif's eyes and quickly bent to open her pack, rummaging through her small bundle of belongings to cover the moment. “Ah, here it is. Damp, but it'll do. You're right, we should do nothing to arouse suspicion.”

Deftly, she bound the white linen around her head, completely covering her hair. “There. Respectable again?”

The sailor grunted. “We must hurry, we've a way to walk before dark.”

Anne wrapped her spare kirtle around the heavy purse she'd been given by Margaret of Burgundy and shoved it right to the bottom
of her bag once more. Her spare undershift and favorite shawl—the cheerful blue and yellow one she wore when working around the house—went in next. At the very top, she carefully placed a precious bone comb and a second pair of warm stockings. The ones she was wearing had helped with the blisters forming on her toes in the new willow-wood clogs, but if she needed extra padding she'd wear these as well. “I'm ready.” She stood beside Leif, head held high, composed and tidy. Her leather pack, buckled closed, was back on her shoulders. “Lead on, my friend, I'll do my best to keep up this time.”

For a moment, his face worked and it seemed as if he would reach out… but Anne had turned away to gaze north, into the future, and the hand he'd begun to extend did not reach hers. He snatched it back before she could turn and see.

“Very well. We'll rest from time to time, but we must walk briskly or we'll find the gates closed against us.”

For luck, and to keep storms away, he kissed Thor's hammer on the chain around his neck. He would need more than the strength of the God of thunder on this journey, though. Loki's cunning was required if they were to survive, plus the speed of Sleipnir, mount of Odin; and, to see the future, to choose the right way, he must seek the wisdom of the All-Father himself. And so they trudged on together into a bitter wind from the northeast; a freezing wind that whipped sand from the dunes into their faces and that was as cold and sharp as shards of glass.

But not once, in the next few hours, did Anne complain. And not once, even if she stumbled, did Leif offer to help her. She knew why. Of course she knew why. And so did he.

There were bells again, always
bells, and though Edward tried to ignore them they had become a severe trial, for they measured out the agony of these uncertain days in pitiless bronze.

The town of s'Gravenhague was still crammed with people celebrating the first Sunday of Advent. Darkness closed in as the Haguers wandered home in noisy groups and, one by one, lamps were lit in the houses like so many small stars. Edward and Richard
rode quietly through the narrow streets, murmuring plans to each other as their horses ambled along.

Since Edward's last painful interview with Louis de Gruuthuse, his resolve had stiffened. The birth of his heir would give his supporters in England heart; the tide would be turning in his favor even now. Money or no, supporters or no, tomorrow at dawn he and Richard planned to cut their way through the town gate and make for Brugge. This was the focus now of all their urgent, whispering talk, all their plans. The how, the what, the when. Charles must be made to listen and, God willing, the rest would follow: men, money, armaments, and England.

But then the bells came again, clamoring, calling out, instructing. Return to the palace, return to the palace, for if you do not, our master's men will search you out. Go now, for the gates of the town must be closed, the streets emptied and chained against the night. Go now, while you are still safe, protected within the sound of our voices…

Bells and men know about the night. The time of shadows is a time of unexpected things, a time when souls can be lost to the snares of Satan, to the uncontrolled wiles of the flesh. A time when the great wheel of fate begins to turn.

“We should return to the Ridderzaal, brother, or our most saint-like host will become alarmed. We must be careful not to rouse his suspicion today.”

Edward snorted. “Ha! At least we could supply Louis's men with a little sport if they tried to chase us through these lanes among the people. By God, I know London's streets are narrow, Richard, but these are absurd. And dangerous.”

They were riding slowly behind an obedient crowd of Haguers hurrying home when something caught the king's eye. Or someone. He noticed the man because he was so tall; it was hard to tell in the fast-dropping dusk, but perhaps he and this stranger might even be of a height. Edward Plantagenet was used to being the tallest man in any gathering; to find another who matched him piqued his interest. The big man was striding away purposefully, followed by his much smaller wife, and walking so fast that the gap
between the couple and the king was becoming greater by the moment.

Edward pointed. “That man. See, brother? He looks useful.”

Richard craned to look and nodded. “Seaman's boots. We'll need seamen. What do you think? Two-man press gang?”

That was enough for Edward; the king spurred his horse, hurriedly bowing left and right as the animal leaped forward to not a few shouts and oaths. “Your pardon, dame, and you, sir… forgive us but…” Soon he was the length of his horse behind the tall man and felt safe to call out, in French, “Sir, would you pause for a moment? Sir?”

Perhaps it was the press of people in the narrow street, or a last belligerent clang from the bells, or perhaps because the king's voice was very loud and that startled his skittish horse as he called, “You, sir, you there. Stop!” But what happened next would stay with Edward Plantagenet until the moment he died.

The tall man paused in his stride, then turned fast, defensively, an exposed knife glinting in one hand as the other was flung out, automatically, to defend the small woman at his side. She, surprised, turned back toward the king, seeking the source of the command, but slewed around too quickly. The cobbles of the roadway were greasy after rain and in that moment, with that sudden movement, the girl lost her footing on the filthy surface.

Down she fell, down, but she saw him, saw the king, and he saw her, her face a white blur as the hood of her cloak fell back, bronze hair suddenly freed as the kerchief fell from her head, and she called him, called out his name, “Edward!”

And then she was gone, trampled beneath the hooves of Edward Plantagenet's unreliable horse. Anne!

“Ah, God, God!” He didn't remember flinging himself from the stallion's back, didn't remember pushing the rearing, frightened animal backward into the outraged crowd. But in his dreams, his nightmares, once that terrible day was gone, he saw what happened next over and over again. Anne, plucked up from the filth of the roadway, lay limp and broken in his arms; Anne, silent, as, frantic with fear, he held her against his chest, willing breath into her
small body; Anne moaning, blood seeping into her hair; Anne opening her eyes, sorrowful, shocked, confused when she saw his face so close to hers…

But then came the blessing. She smiled. He always remembered that, dreamed of that, her smile at that moment. “Ah, love; my dearest love,” she whispered, and one finger reached up and touched his face lightly, his mouth. Then she sighed, and closed her eyes. And he thought she was dead; that he had killed her by his carelessness, his ambition.

And in life, as in his dreams, Edward Plantagenet stood like a rock in the angry, confused crowd as it eddied and swirled around him; stood there, holding Anne's frail body cradled against his chest and howled like an inconsolable child.

He had killed the woman he loved.

The Binnenhof exploded with noise and rumor as people ran to accommodate the sudden crisis.

“Is she alive? Who is she?”

“Yes, just. I don't know. No lady, by her clothes.”

Gudrun and Hawise—two of Louis de Gruuthuse's kitchen women now pressed into different service—went about their work efficiently, each hurrying past the other in the Ridderzaal. Gudrun had just left Anne's room with a load of soiled clothes, and Hawise was running to supply the third best guest chamber with clean, blanched bed linen.