The Uncrowned Queen (18 page)

“Sire, the facts are these. Edward the Usurper, earl of March, crossed from England nearly a month ago with a party of some twenty men. It included his younger brother, Richard, formerly duke of Gloucester; his Great Chamberlain, Lord William Hastings; the Lord Rivers, his brother-in-law; and a number of archers and—”

“I know all this! Why tell me again?”

Le Dain swallowed and sucked a deep breath into his lungs. Calm. Stay calm.

“It seemed useful to recap the names of the nobles, sire, because they too are missing. As are the earl's Welsh archers. He had only a few, but they are formidable fighters.”

Louis grunted and signaled for le Dain to continue as he picked at the uneven stump of one black tooth with his knife. A morsel of gooseflesh had become trapped—he could feel it. The puffed and tender gum sat proud of the damaged tooth and prodding it disturbed a fragile balance within the king's mouth; there was a sudden eruption of pus and blood. Louis yelped and spat the foul matter onto the floor rushes at his feet. The barber fell silent, unnerved. Irritated, the king signaled for him to continue as he mopped at his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth.

“It seems that the sieur de Gruuthuse did not approve of his guest's departure. We know this because on the morning that the king… er, the earl that is… was found to be missing, several parties were sent out from the Binnenhof to find him.”

“And then?” Louis's voice was muffled as he tried to staunch the blood and pus now oozing freely from his gum. The tooth had surrendered its tenuous hold under his ministrations and had left an inflamed and angry hole. The pain was eye-watering.

Le Dain glanced warily at his master. The king was moaning and snorting now, tears running freely from closed eyes. He hurried on, since those had been his instructions. “Alas, the earl could not be found. Louis de Gruuthuse has since sent urgent messages to Duke Charles at Brugge. We know this because we managed to fall in the way of one of the messengers.”

“Only one of them?” The king was inspecting the remains of his tooth as he spoke, holding it up to the light as if it were a gem, or a pearl of great price. He glowered as he turned it around and around. “This is the fault of the cooks. That goose was a disgrace!” Suddenly he threw the little black pebble into the heart of the fire. “I've only got six of my great teeth left now. And perhaps they will not survive to the spring. I shall have to live on gruel. Or have my food chewed before I eat it.” A repellent and gloomy thought, but Louis was not seeking pity; he was angry. He wanted someone to blame for growing old. There was a sudden pop from the fire as the tooth exploded and the foul smell of rotted, burning bone wafted into the room. That made the king even angrier. “Send me the man who cooked that goose!”

Le Dain backed out of the king's presence at speed, bowing, blessing the rotten tooth as a diversion from the discomforting news of Edward Plantagenet's disappearance. Not for all the estates he coveted in the Loire would Olivier le Dain go willingly into the king's presence again while Louis was in this mood. Luckily for him, the hapless cook would most likely draw the king's ire down upon his head, and he, Olivier, would have another night's sleep in a bed, rather than on the freezing metal bottom of a cage. Tomorrow would be another day. And tomorrow, he felt sure, he would find out where Edward Plantagenet was hiding. But where would
that be? Olivier le Dain stood in the hall of the hunting lodge and bellowed. It gave him pleasure to see how many of the king's party came running to see what he required.

“The goose cook! I want the goose cook! And so does the king!”

The unlucky chef was ejected from the kitchens and into le Dain's presence, where he fell on his knees, head bowed. And then it came to him. He, Olivier le Dain, would deliver the head of Edward Plantagenet to his master on a platter; just as this man, groveling before him, had served up the goose. Then he would be rewarded with the pretty estates he coveted in the valley of the Loire. Fearfully, the cook dared to raise his eyes, hoping against hope that he had earned the praise of the king for the meal that had just been served. But then all hope died. He saw his fate written in the eyes of Olivier le Dain and moaned.

The barber was pitiless. “My friend, you have just cooked your last goose.”

They were moving dangerously fast across a silent, white world. Leif Molnar had been right: a sea voyage, treacherous as it might be in winter, was much to be preferred to a land journey. Horses are fragile creatures, despite their size, and a landscape obscured by winter hides many obstacles—holes in the track, frozen puddles, black ice. Every step the horses took risked their riders' lives at this speed. But Anne de Bohun did not consider any of these things as she rode pillion behind Edward Plantagenet. Her concerns were of the future beyond this cold journey—that, and the immediate past.

It was less than ten days since she'd been trampled beneath the hooves of Edward's horse and, though she was strong and had recovered quickly, she was still frail. Under the hood of her riding cloak, her head throbbed in time with the jolting hooves, as did her tightly bandaged ribs and finger. Was it the wounds knitting together that caused the pain, or was it her conscience? It had not been her choice to leave Leif Molnar behind. Why then did she feel such sadness when she thought of the captain, saw his face in her mind?

Edward, his men, and Anne had fled the Binnenhof three days and nights ago. Anne had not been asked if she wished to accompany them. Edward had entered her room in the dead of night, kissed her awake—she'd thought it was a dream—and, taking her from the warm sheets, had dropped clothes over her head to cover
her shivering naked body. All that time he had said nothing, though he'd kissed her again, so longingly.

Together they had stolen, hand in hand, through the sleeping castle to where the horses and the men were gathered, restless and silent in the starlight. Her knees had given way then, from fear and physical weakness, but also from the sudden knowledge that her future had just lurched into being, fully formed.

Edward caught her before she slumped to the ground. Quickly, he'd vaulted into his saddle and she had been handed up to him. He did not trust her to ride alone until he knew she had the strength to hold a horse in check. They'd wrapped her in a thick riding cloak, over the many layers of clothes Edward had insisted on dressing her in before they fled her room. He had even advised on two pairs of hose, and his own long fingers had tied the ribbons beneath her knees.

Now, three days into their journey, Anne blessed the king's foresight and his care for her, but it was impossible to stay warm, especially riding pillion. She burrowed into Edward's back, sensing the heat of his body even through his layers of clothing and her own. He glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling. “My darling is brave. We will rest soon. When it is dark. How is your head?”

His back was very broad and to sit behind him, pressed up against him, was intoxicating after two years of deprivation. Anne's feelings were a roiling mass of confusion, and they were not helped by this proximity. “Better, I think. But… Your Majesty, I feel sure that I could ride by myself now. We would travel faster, if you'd let me?”

The king laughed, and the vibration passed through her chest, between her breasts. Unconsciously, her hands tightened around his waist.

Edward felt the circle of her arms and a slow, hot ache warmed the pit of his belly. He covered her hands with one of his, the other controlling the horse with practiced strength.

“I don't want to travel any faster than we're going now. I want every moment of this. Every single moment of you.”

Only she heard the whispered words. She bowed her head and the hood slipped forward, obscuring her face. She said nothing.

“Anne? Did you hear me?”

She sighed. “Yes, I heard you. But I've been thinking of Leif.”

Leif. Edward Plantagenet frowned. He wanted, so much, to know if Anne had married the Dane, but then again…

“Will he be all right, do you think? Leif, I mean.”

The question hovered between them in the frozen, rushing air.

Edward heard the shame and the guilt in her voice. He ignored both as he lied calmly.

“Of course. Why would Louis want to harm him? They'll have let him go by now, I should think. Why feed one extra mouth in winter, if you don't have to, even if he is your husband?” He almost choked on the last word, fishing for a response. Anne did not reply.

Around and ahead of them, the party of men traveled at a rough canter across the hard ground. The earth was frozen so rigid that it drummed beneath the hooves of the horses. And the wind, if Anne looked around and past Edward's torso, was bitter. Better by far to press herself into his back, head snuggled between his shoulder blades. That way she could pretend to be warm, pretend this was all a dream, pretend that Leif was not a prisoner in the dungeon of the Binnenhof.

The movement of the horse was seductive, it rocked her. She was tired, so tired. Nearly asleep…

“Anne?”

“Yes, Lord?” She spoke dreamily into his back, his spine.

He felt the sound travel through him. It was delicious, but he shook his head. “I am not your lord. I am your lover. Perhaps you had forgotten.”

She shivered. She'd been so afraid of this, knew she'd not be strong enough when the time came. She did not answer.

Edward narrowed his eyes. Half of him was doing the job he was used to—scouting the landscape automatically, alert to pursuit or threat of any kind—but the other half was a starving hound. He was alive with every sense to this girl; she was his most tangible desire and now they rode through the world together as if tied. He could feel her ribs as she breathed; the firm pressure from her breasts as they moved up and down with the motion of the horse;
her thighs, her knees, lying behind his own in the pillion. He had only to drop one hand behind him to…

“Are you his wife?”

What should Anne say? The truth would be no protection. But if she lied, perhaps it would give her the strength to—

“Tell me, Anne. Did you marry that man?”

She spoke into his back again, the sound muffled by the layers of cloth between them. The words buzzed through his flesh from his spine to his heart. “You've been a long time gone. Is it so surprising?”

He knew her well and even laughed then. “Nothing about you will ever surprise me.”

The king reined his horse tighter and the animal responded, picking up its pace. This was good ground now, the party could make more speed in their flight.

“You're being evasive. Tell me the truth.”

She sighed shakily. “I will tell you the truth. But not now.” She grimaced even as she spoke. It was a stupid answer; only exhaustion could have formed those words.

They were riding due south and the world was empty of people. As the season of Yule approached and the weather turned colder, work in the fields had stopped. Winter was the time for indoor enterprise: chair-making, carding and spinning, telling stories beside the fire. And the women nursed the babies born in late summer, each mother hoping there would be enough food to make enough milk so that her little one lived to see the spring. Edward and Anne were excluded from that warm world with its fug of family and hearth. They were both outcasts now, fugitives. It was the irony of fate: Edward was now living as Anne had once, when he exiled her from England, pregnant with his son, nearly five years ago.

Richard of Gloucester cantered up beside his brother and matched his horse's pace with the king's. He smiled briefly at Anne—he liked this girl, liked her courage. She asked no more than the men, refused special treatment when they camped at night, and ate less than the rest of them. Yes, he admired her spirit.
But there were harsher things to concern him now than one woman's welfare caught up in a man's quest. He was anxious.

“Edward, there's a farm ahead. A big one.”

The light was dropping fast as the brief afternoon fled. Edward slowed his horse from a canter to a trot. Anne's thighs, behind his, clenched to help her balance with the change of pace. Richard was right. Ahead in the gathering gloom was a substantial huddle of buildings: a large hallhouse with barns around it. A light shone in one of the narrow windows.

“Halt.” Edward called the word softly and Richard picked it up, echoing his brother's order down the line of men. The Welsh archers and the mercenaries that Margaret's money had bought as escort slowed their horses carefully. This road was not much traveled and last night's ice was still on its surface almost a day later. Haul their horses to a stop too fast and disaster beckoned.

“Form up.”

The response was instant: the king's companions shuffled their horses into an orderly line, two by two. The aristocrats—William Hastings, Lord Rivers, Richard of Gloucester—had often been part of Edward's “riding court” in England and followed him without question, trusting his judgment. The archers had learned, through the wild ride across country to Lynn, that Edward's instinctive leadership was vital to their survival. The mercenaries responded to whoever paid them; none of them questioned the order.