The Uncrowned Queen (21 page)

“Perhaps she's with our hostess. The kitchen?”

Both men grimaced slightly. “Ah, yes. Our Lady of Sorrows. Well, perhaps I should find them…”

William Hastings said nothing in reply because there was nothing to say. It was the king's affair if he chose to seek out Lady Anne de Bohun, with or without Dame Philomena.

Edward smiled as he stood. “Sleep, William. It will not be
dawn for many hours. Rest is important. We've a day or so of hard riding still to come.”

Lord Hastings nodded and sighed. Rest. Sleep. Such lovely words. His head fell to the board once more, and he was snoring before the king had reached the stairs that led down to the kitchen.

“Anne? Anne, are you there?”

The house breathed quietly in the cold night. Thick walls and small rooms held the heat of the evening and the banked fires well. The low-ceilinged kitchen was still haunted by the ghost of the dinner that had been cooked for the English, and it was a comforting, domestic-smelling silence that greeted Edward when he found his way there. Abruptly, he was homesick. The smell of roasted meat made him think of Windsor and the Christmas revels. Would he ever see another? He forced himself to banish the fear.

“Dame Philomena?” he called.

“Shush. I've managed to get her to sleep, poor thing. Her story is very sad. Her daughter was taken by brigands as she walked home from a fair. Dame Philomena thought I was she, returning.”

The king swung around at the sound of Anne's voice. “Where have you been? I've missed you.”

Anne stood in the shadows of the kitchen, holding a lamp high. The light was soft, enchanting; it poured dark gold onto Anne's hair. Quickly the king strode over to her and, twitching the lantern from her grasp, enveloped her body with his arms. “Ah, my darling, my darling girl.”

He could not have enough of her mouth, and when she tried to speak, he ate her words with kisses. Anne gasped and, like a drowning swimmer, struggled toward breath, toward speech, but he held her tighter.

“No! I don't care if you are his wife!”

“Edward, please!” She was pulling at his hands, his iron arms. But he would not let her go—until she caught her breath in a sob. Then he dropped his hands and they stood together, not touching, each stricken by the presence of the other. Edward was breathing hard, striving to control himself. An onlooker would think him ill, perhaps in deep pain from an unseen wound.

Now, when she needed words most, Anne could not speak either. She shook her head.

“You have ceased to love me.”

It was a flat statement, desolate, and the last thing the king expected in response was laughter. But, once started, Anne could not stop. Until she cried—and that was all the answer he needed. Sighing, Edward took Anne in his arms, gently, softly, this time. Picking her up by the waist with both hands, he deposited her on the kitchen board, a sturdy, high trestle, and stood with his knees between her own. And when he kissed her, that was gentle too. Sweet, chaste almost. Almost.

He nuzzled Anne's neck and felt her shiver. Then, pushing the hair back from her face, he stopped, surprised. “Your hair is wet. And you've taken the bandages off.”

He sounded so alarmed, Anne found herself soothing him. “It's healed well but I was so dirty from the ride I couldn't bear it any longer. I washed myself, and my hair. Dame Philomena is a good housewife. She has dried soapwort and rosemary water.”

Edward was worried. “But the night air? This is dangerous!” He touched her scalp lightly, feeling for the stitches. In the uncertain light, it was hard to see the site of the wound among her hair. “Does it hurt you, my darling?”

Anne shook her head. “No, not now. It itches a little, which I think must be good.”

She yawned and leaned against his chest with her eyes closed. She was tired, so tired. Her body ached from the long ride of the last days. “I have so much to tell you,” she murmured. “Things you must know. But perhaps it can wait until the morning?” She yawned more deeply still, setting the king to fighting sleep himself. “No one's going anywhere tonight.” He slipped an arm around her waist and found himself rocking her as Anne snuggled into his shoulder like a trusting child. “Come. Sleep is what we both need.” Edward knew there were other rooms in the upper part of the house besides the hall. One or another of them must have a bed in it.

Anne opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Can we sleep together, Edward?”

He knew what she meant. “Yes, my darling. Like brother and sister.” And so the dethroned king of England and an ex—servant girl, lately a merchant of Brugge, stole hand in hand through the kitchen, across the hall filled with snoring men, and up a further staircase, almost as steep as a ladder, until they found a room high beneath the red tiles of the roof.

The little chamber smelled of apples and the straw that stored them, and there was a bed. Not wide and not long, but deep and soft enough with its wool-stuffed ticking mattress so they could sleep together in perfect peace, with Edward's fur-lined cloak for covering. And sleep they did, wrapped warm and tight in each other's arms like two children. Tomorrow was another day, and they would think about that then.

“Husband, is there any news? Jassy told me a man had come.”

Mathew Cuttifer looked up wearily as his wife entered his workroom. He was standing at his table before a stacked pile of ledgers, a branch of candles providing uncertain light. Too restless to sit as he worked, he was exhausted past all counting. He'd not slept for three days—could not, for formless terrors stalked him when he closed his eyes—and his whey-pale face told its own story.

“No, wife. Nothing of consequence. News from our northern lands. All seems well there with my daughter and her husband, praise God. Nothing from Leif.”

Margaret went swiftly to her husband and picked up one of his hands. “Dearest Mathew, you're doing all you can.”

The merest glimmer of a smile stretched his mouth. “Ah, but is it enough? All we know is that Leif has disappeared, and the Lady Margaret with him. Privateers, perhaps? Who can tell.”

His wife nodded soberly. “Come, sit with me.” She held out her arms and, with a sigh, he followed her obediently to a bench beside the hearth. The fire was banked low, the ashes a white heap with a red heart providing an illusion of heat. Margaret shivered; in truth, the place was tomb-cold.

“What did Leif say in his last note to you? Tell me again.”

Mathew's head buzzed and throbbed. It was hard to concentrate.
With an effort, he forced words out of his mouth. “He had visited Anne and was staying at her farm. Her news was that Charles of Burgundy was vacillating. Not wanting to support the king in any obvious way. Since then—nothing. Nothing from either of them.”

Margaret tried to bolster her own heart, and his, against despair. “Leif is more than competent, Mathew; and Anne will have her reasons for silence, also. We shall hear something soon, I'm sure of it. And we must make plans, husband, for it will be good news. I'm certain of it!” She patted her husband's hand with new energy. “And if you're to take advantage of the tide turning, you must rest, my dear. Lack of sleep makes all things seem black. Come, I have the bed warmed and a chamomile posset brewed for you. Tonight I feel sure you will rest dreamlessly.”

Mathew crossed himself and stood. Perhaps his wife was right. Perhaps tonight there would be no night terrors. Please God, let it be so.

How was it that news could travel faster than a man, even when the tracks were good?

Two days after leaving Dame Philomena's house the king's party arrived at Anne's farm on the banks of the Zwijn. It was just after dawn, yet a woman was waiting by the gate on the road that ran parallel to the river's edge.

“Anne!” The old woman hurried forward in the half-light, eyes like candles lit for thanks, as the girl slipped down from the horse she was riding, a horse so black it was nearly blue in some lights. The two embraced, cheeks wet with happy tears.

Richard glanced to the king, his tone cool. “A happy meeting, brother?”

Edward spoke quietly. “Happy, yes. But…” He caught his brother's eye and motioned with one hand.

Richard nodded and made a sweeping gesture with his own mailed arm, holding up three fingers. Tired as they were, the men immediately shuffled their horses quickly into neat lines of three, blocking the road and surrounding the king and his brother. Archers nocked arrows to bows.

Deborah was suddenly rigid in Anne's embrace. The girl wheeled around to confront a solid wall of men, arrows aimed at Deborah's heart.

“My lord? What does this mean?” Anne might have laughed if she hadn't been so angry.

Edward shrugged unhappily. “Lady Anne, this woman seems to have expected us. How can this be so?”

Deborah mustered a dignified curtsy.

“Sire, my name is Deborah. I come to the gate at dawn every day and have done ever since my mistress, Lady Anne, went away in your service.” There was the merest stress on the word “service.” “We had no word to expect your party, I can promise you that.” Her thoughts flashed to the Sword Mother, Goddess from the West, Goddess of War. Mother, protect us here, she prayed. The runes had told her that these men were coming, and that there was danger and transformation. The runes did not offer words; they brought dreams, pictures of the future, for those who could read them. And they never lied.

Edward grunted, embarrassed. As the light rose, he saw Deborah clearly and remembered her now. They had met before. Anne's face was carefully blank but Edward knew her well. She was angry. And very hurt.

William Hastings broke the moment. “Ah, war—lies become truth, and truth? Truth is very strange. Lady, I must crave pardon for this momentary uncertainty, yet I know you understand. As does my lord, the king.”

The chamberlain was interrupted by a yell that might have come from a much bigger chest than that of the butter-haired little boy now hurtling toward them at a run. “Wissy! Wissy! You're back. My Wissy's home!”

The small missile hurled himself from ten paces at Anne's legs, still yelling. She caught him just before he fell beneath the hooves of her startled horse, moving as fast as a juggler at the fair—a fact much commented on later among the archers. And, slight though she was, and tall for his age though he was, she managed to throw the boy up in the air as if he'd been a fairing himself.

“Edward! Oh, my darling, I've missed you! But look, here is your blue horse.”

“Where?” Little Edward raised his head and looked around, eyes enormous. He'd never seen a blue horse. Neither had the archers, and one or two crossed themselves just in case a fairy animal was lurking about. Couldn't be too careful in foreign lands.

“Here he is!” Anne placed a hand on the animal she'd been riding.

The little boy looked puzzled. “But he's brown. Like mud!”

Anne laughed. “No, you wait. When he's clean and all glossy, he's so black, he's blue.”

Edward Plantagenet smiled down at his son and spoke softly. “Yes, Edward, he is. A horse fit for a prince. Perhaps you can ride him home? And then you can keep him.”

Anne caught the king's eye and a slight smile destroyed the last of the tension between them. “Your Majesty is generous. My nephew is very grateful.”

Little Edward nodded with great certainty. “Very grateful! Now, may I ride? Please, Wissy?”

So it was that laughter swept the party into Riverstead Farm, not tears. And, coming home, Anne was glad that Edward Plantagenet saw what she saw. Her security; the security she had built for herself without help from anyone.

And he had seen her son again.

The boy they had made together.

“I will not see him. I absolutely refuse. Your brother is here against my express wishes and command.” Charles of Burgundy had disappointed his wife, bitterly. But he was unrepentant. “No! It is not possible. Louis de Valois will know—very soon, if he doesn't already—that Edward has found his way to Brugge. It could be disastrous, disastrous for Burgundy, and for you and me, if he heard that we had met.”