The Uncrowned Queen (2 page)

Beneath their wings the city nested tight behind its walls as, one by one, houses woke to the day. The eagles saw the people, tiny figures far below, as they issued from their doors—specks of restless color channeled into streams by the dark streets.

The eagles called out to each other. Enough, said that cry. No food for us here. And they flew away toward the coast, toward the empty, clean sea without another glance.

But the people of London had no wings. Left behind, the dirty streets heaved and rippled with speculation. At first it was a whisper, neighbor to frightened neighbor, but terror spoke at last and named the thing out loud for what it was. War. War was coming.

None would speak her name though, for saying it, actually naming her, might bring the curse, bring her, to their doors. That fearful knowledge hollowed out the day. The old queen, Margaret of Anjou, and the earl of Warwick had become allies where, before, the deaths of many men had forged and sealed their enmity.

Dread of that strange pairing flowed over the walls of London and drifted through the gates like gray fog, chilling the unwary. And rumors spread as sweating sickness does, mouth to mouth. Troops were massed on the other side of the water; all the horses in
Normandy had been requisitioned by her knights; the masts of her fleet were thick as forest trees. This, and more, was proof that she was backed by the power of the mad and terrible French king, Louis.

It was certain, people whispered. Margaret had sworn to take the kingdom back for her lack-wit husband and her loose-born son, and God help them all when she came. She would not pity them when her troops entered their city. London, and Londoners, had betrayed her before and all the prayers in the world, all the pleas for intercession, would be as nothing, for the old queen's memory was long. She'd been driven from this city and her kingdom years ago. Exiled now, she waited for revenge. She was Edward Plantagenet's nemesis and at last, at last, her hour had come.

The citizens of London shivered as they whispered, and terrified the children who heard them talking. And they mourned as they prayed without hope.

They mourned for their king, their summer king, and for his queen, Elizabeth, as lovely as the empress of Heaven descended down to Earth. The Yorks had had their brief summer, a summer of hope, of optimism, and soon this young king and his silver-gilt queen would be gone, swept away with their little princesses on the tide of history, never to return. None doubted it.

Least of all Sir Mathew Cuttifer, mercer of the city of London. Stoically, hour after hour, he knelt as if on knives while the silence of his working room in Blessing House—his London base—grew thick as dust. Mathew, too, prayed for deliverance. First, his prayers were for the kingdom of England; next for his king, Edward Plantagenet, and all his family. Then he prayed for his city and its frightened people. He asked intercession for his wife and their grandson, his household, his business, and for his own personal survival, if that were God's will.

Lastly, he prayed for the safety and well-being of Anne de Bohun, the girl he called his ward, over the seas in Brugge. The girl whose destiny had come to be so bound up with that of his family, his house and, truly, the kingdom of England, that her very existence seemed an omen. Whether good or bad, it was impossible to tell. It had always been impossible to tell.

And though Anne was safe where she was, soon, very soon, the dark fingers of the turmoil in England would reach out over the water and touch her with their taint. Of that, Mathew Cuttifer had no doubt.

“Master?” The voice was muffled by the door, four inches of ancient oak bound by iron.

Mathew frowned. He was praying; the household knew that. On his clear instructions, the sacred was never to be interrupted by the profane concerns of everyday life. He muttered an Ave and ignored his knees; he would not recognize the pain. And he would not respond to the man outside the door. The servant would go away. If he was sensible.

There was silence once more. Motes danced in the cold slant of light from the single high window. Then it came again: a rapid knocking.

“Master? Can you hear me?”

Mathew crossed himself and breathed deeply. “This is not the time. Go away.”

“There is bad news, master.”

Mathew knew himself to be a rational man, a calm man. His friends, his trading colleagues all agreed. Mathew Cuttifer was always staunch in a crisis, they said; always good for wise, detached advice and clear analysis of a problem.

Not today.

“What news?”

The door was wrenched wide so fast the hinges yelped. Leif Molnar, chief captain of the burgeoning Cuttifer fleet of trading vessels, stood outside. Anxiety had made his seaman's cap a shapeless mass in giant hands. “Warwick and Clarence have landed in the west, master. Jasper Tudor is with them. They're being supported by the people. Some of the lords, as well. Too many.”

Mathew Cuttifer's face was plaster-white. He gestured for the man to enter, waved him to the high stool in front of his working desk. “So, it's finally come. Does the king know?”

Leif lifted massive shoulders in a shrug. “It's said he's still in the north. York, perhaps. They're rioting in Kent already. News travels faster than men do.”

Mathew crossed himself. “God defend us, then.”

Kent was troublesome no matter which king sat on the throne. Always opportunistic, the men of Kent; they'd looted London on a rumor of trouble before.

“We'll need to shore up defenses here. Those who are not friends of the king will think they've been given a license to sack the city.” Mathew gathered his old-fashioned houppelande around his shanks as he hobbled from the room. Sudden energy freed up his joints remarkably—the operation of fear. “Come with me, Leif. There is much to be done.”

Leif was an oaklike presence in that low-ceilinged room. “Master?”

“What?” The word was flung back over Mathew's shoulder.

“The Lady de Bohun?”

Mathew slowed his pace and allowed Leif to catch up with him. “She's safest out of this. Best she stays where she is.”

“But her connections might be useful to the king and his cause.” Captain Molnar did not add, “And to you, master,” but that's what he meant.

Mathew turned so quickly the Dane cannoned into him, treading heavily on his master's gouty toes. Instant, breathless pain, and the merchant's face collapsed around his missing teeth.

“Connections? What do you mean?” Hissing the words, Mathew moved his mind away from the agony, though his eyes watered.

Leif was embarrassed. Only on the deck of his ship was he graceful. Or in a fight. “The sister to the king, the duchess of Burgundy, she is Lady Anne's friend because of the affection they both share for…” He swallowed defensively as Mathew glared at him. “It is common knowledge, master, that Lady Anne and the king have a… connection.”

Mathew snorted. “Common knowledge! Gossip, you mean. You disappoint me, Leif.” He hurried away, leaving his captain wallowing, discomforted, in his righteous wake.

But later that night, after a lengthy conversation with his wife, Lady Margaret, whose judgment Mathew Cuttifer deeply respected, as well as much searching prayer on the matter, Mathew
came to a decision that surprised and frightened both husband and wife. He would send Leif Molnar to Brugge.

The Dane would survey and secure the trading operation of the House of Cuttifer in Brugge, and report back. Mathew didn't doubt the worth of his steward there, Maxim, and Meinheer Boter, who controlled his accounting-house, but with war beckoning, chaos would shortly follow, and a prudent man did what he could to protect what God had so graciously given.

Leif would also visit Anne de Bohun. Mathew's ward did have links to the Burgundian court at the very highest level, and she would be asked to obtain information regarding the intentions of Charles, duke of Burgundy, in the coming war. Such intelligence would be of great worth to the future of London, and of England. And to the Yorkist cause. Both ends against the middle—that was the game Mathew Cuttifer played now. And Holy Mary help them all, for he'd been in this place before with Anne de Bohun and her terrifyingly high “connections.” Once, Anne's links to the court of England, to the king himself, had almost cost Mathew his family, his business, and his life.

And in sending Leif Molnar to Anne at this time, and on such a mission, Mathew Cuttifer placed them all in danger once more. In the end, though, what else could he do?

His prayers had told him the truth in this matter.

It was the will of God.

Snow was falling again. Soft, lazy flakes. She tasted them. Held up her hands to catch them. They touched her like a kiss.

There were footprints in the fallen snow. Large. Not hers. Marks made by a man. But they were old, the edges of the outlines rounded, blurred. The man was long gone. She looked down at her own red shoes. Would she fit her feet within the marks the man had made? They led away across the white field toward the fence of trees that was the edge of the forest. Stark black trunks, limbs burdened, clotted with snow. Yes.

Suddenly convinced, she hurried forward, the deep, soft powder creaking beneath her Spanish slippers. But she was hot, not cold, as she stepped into the hollows of the footprints in the snow. She had to stretch to match his stride—he'd been tall, this man—and she could feel it in her thighs, her knees.

And then she was among the trees, breathless, starting to hurry, trying to run, trying not to flounder, stumbling on though her skirts were wet and heavy. Her mantle was a burden. Throw it away, that was best, she would not be so hot. Impatiently she dragged at the cloak pin, a gold dragon with milk-white eyes of pearl. It ripped the heavy velvet as she tugged, but she didn't care. She threw the precious garment down beside a naked hawthorn tree, the last blood-dark berries shriveled on the twigs, some caught
into icicles, the fingers of winter. Perhaps she would come back and find the blue cloak later. Only perhaps.

She was strong, she knew that, but every part of her was in pain as she struggled to be faithful to the marks in the snow, her chest heaving with the effort of moving forward, plowing forward. The footprints led her on. She allowed herself to feel hope now, to believe that she was close. That soon, if only she ignored the agony in her knees, her side, her throat, she would find him, the man who'd made them. She was clear on that—she wanted that. She must find him, ask him why he had… what? Gone on this weary journey, of course, when all the world was deep asleep, locked in the depths of rigid winter.

And it made her happy, knowing she would find him, so happy that nothing else mattered. She would see this man, touch him, hold his face between her hands. She would feel the sharp day-old stubble on his skin, she would taste his mouth softly, and he would hold her. Not concentrating, Anne stumbled, falling suddenly into the cold, soft snow. She laughed. She liked snow, liked the feel of it, only it was important to brush it off quickly so the cold did not travel to the skin. First she would sit up, then she would stand, and then…

She saw the wolf. Smelled her. This white world had no smell, but the wolf did—a rank, dog-slobber stench. The creature was yellow-eyed, all sinew, no fat this deep in winter. Ravenous, and pregnant. Anne was fresh meat, a happy bonus in the frozen world of the wolf.

Anne heard herself scream, the sound given up from deep in her chest, as the wolf sprang. The animal's weight hit her and teeth, hard yellow teeth, ripped and connected within her throat; blood, blood was everywhere. White pain, white snow and blood, a sea of blood, soft red blood. How could blood be so soft?

The wolf was shaking her now, shaking Anne's shoulder. Addressing her, while ripping at her tender flesh.

“Anne? Anne, all is well. Anne?”

Yes, perhaps all would be well. Dying was easy; she'd always known that. Anne sighed. These were the last things she would ever feel; she allowed her hands to pat the soft red snow as her body
flopped this way and that, shaken by the wolf as the creature went about her work.