The Uncrowned Queen (22 page)

“But, Charles, you must hear Edward out. He needs—”

“Must! What is this must? You belong to Burgundy now, wife. Not England. Shall I remind you where your duty lies? Or is it too late for that? Did you help your brother, madame?”

Margaret's eyes filled with tears. It was rare that she and Charles fought on any issue, but to quarrel over Edward and the survival of her brother's throne in England was unbearable. Words hurried out of her mouth as she ignored the question.

“But, Charles, you have often said that Burgundy needs England to stand against France; you must have Edward's help as king of England if you, too, are to become the king you should rightfully be. Yet England will be our enemy—our enemy, my lord, not just yours—if Warwick successfully joins with Margaret of Anjou. She will land her troops very soon—you've told me that—troops supplied by Louis de Valois. Edward is your last hope, as well as mine, to make England a counterweight to France once
more. I will speak the truth to you, husband, even if no one else dares to. That is my duty also.”

Charles answered with icy calm. “Women have no place meddling in statecraft and no right to oppose their husbands' wishes or commands, in any way. Heed well the words of Saint Paul, wife: ‘Let a woman be silent when her husband speaks.' It is not your place to teach me how I may or may not run my duchy, or to usurp my place as head of this household and your superior in every way. Must I beat you to make you understand this?”

Margaret swallowed tears of shock. He meant it; he really would beat her if she continued. And it was his right; he was her husband. The news of this humiliation would spread through the Prinsenhof more quickly than smoke. They might be alone, but fifty or so avid courtiers waited outside the door of her solar, without numbering her husband's guard or her own men. Soldiers were the worst gossips of all. Did Charles now despise her because she was English? Did he no longer love her for herself, only for what she had been once: a princess of England, a useful counter on the board? Desperate thoughts, but they could be true. Most royal marriages were not about love, or even affection; they were about duty. And if theirs were the same, in truth, what then? Would he banish her because she could not conceive and was therefore of no further use? Or send her to a convent cell—locked up and left to starve as that abomination, a woman who willfully disobeyed her husband and was made to pay the price?

The duchess of Burgundy linked trembling fingers in a knot in front of her belly and dropped into a very deep curtsy, head bowed. If swallowing this furious misery, this injustice, this terror, could help her brother and her country of birth, well, she would do it. She forced meekness into her voice. “I am sorry, my lord duke and husband. I had thought to please you with the news that King Edward, my brother, is within your domains. I know that you like and respect him. However, I was wrong to have questioned your judgment in this matter. Correct my mistakes and I will bear your discipline gladly.”

Charles was pacing, agitated. He would not look at his wife. “Have you seen him?”

“Lady de Bohun brought me news of him.”

The duke swung around, glaring at his wife suspiciously. “Lady de Bohun? Why would she know anything? And where has she been? I have not seen her in these many weeks.”

The duchess gulped. “As you know, Lady de Bohun and my brother have had”—she came to a halt, searching for a word that would be correct yet not brutal—“an association. They remain close.”

The duke interrupted her. “How do you know? How could they remain close, after all this time?”

That was too much; the lady of England spoke without thought of the consequences. “Because love lasts, Charles. It is not easily thrown away when it is real. At least not by my brother. Nor by Anne de Bohun.” She was glaring back at him now.

There was a moment's frozen silence, then, abruptly, the duke laughed. “That's better. I wondered where my real wife had gone for a moment. I thought she'd been replaced by a stranger wearing her clothes.”

Margaret gasped with rage. Then relief flooded her eyes and tears dripped down her cheeks. “Oh, Charles.”

She ran to him and he pulled her against his chest. He was shaking slightly but his ragged breathing slowed eventually, as did hers. Taking her hand, he led her to a window seat, a finger to his lips, shaking his head and pointing with his other hand toward the door of the solar. She was puzzled and then understood all in a rush. He was concerned they were being spied upon. Of course!

“Is Your Grace hungry? Or thirsty perhaps?” They were the first words that came into her head and she felt silly saying them, but she spoke loudly, clearly enough to be heard outside the door of the solar. “See, my lord, here are damsons twice-stewed with honey, and sweet almond biscuits. They will taste well, together, with this hypocras…”

All the while, Duke Charles was whispering directly into her ear. “Not here. And not now. Later—tell him that. It's too dangerous for us all until I know more of Louis de Valois's plans.” Could he go on stalling his wife? Perhaps; only perhaps.

“Very well, my lord. I will see if the kitchens have other food that may tempt you more.”

The duchess stood and he joined her, smiling. “Yes, wife. I should like that.” He made a little shooing gesture toward the door, nodding.

Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, turned smartly on her heel and marched toward the door of her solar, filled with energy and determination. They would meet, Edward and Charles, she would see to it. Anne de Bohun would get her wish.

Charles watched his wife's departing back and the smile dropped from his face. Would he allow his duchess to have her way? Would he meet with Edward?

And if he did, what then?

“If you could have one thing above all others, what would it be?”

Edward of England and Anne de Bohun were sequestered together in the great barn among the summer hay, avoiding the household in Anne's now overpopulated farmstead.

“We have spoken of this before, Edward.”

The king rolled over onto his back and laughed. “Perhaps. But tell me again, Anne. Humor me.”

Anne sucked pensively on a piece of straw and didn't answer. He glanced at her.

“Very well, since you are so stubborn, I shall tell you in one word what I want. You. I want you, lady. No more parting. Ever.” It was said seriously, without emphasis. The words fell into silence.

“And this is the part where you say, ‘Edward, that's what I want too.'” The king propped his head on one hand, looking Anne directly in the eye. “Or, rather, that you want me. That I am your dearest wish and always will be.”

Anne closed her eyes. He was far too near to her, his own warm musk competing with the green smell of summer from the straw they lay on. “I have no need to speak since you know my thoughts.”

“Do I, Anne? Do I know your thoughts…” One hand crept out to circle her waist, and suddenly hauled her body to his so that they lay against each other. “…as I know you?”

Anne tried to sit up. “You are dangerous, Edward Plantagenet. Very dangerous.”

He released her. “I cannot believe you've turned into some kind of tease in the time we've been apart. Tell me, Anne. Tell me you feel nothing for me!”

“Do not torment me, Edward!” She was suddenly furious, and then came terror, for the mote-filled light of the barn was suddenly gone. Ink-black dark lapped her close. “Edward?” Was that her voice? Or someone else's? “Edward!” No, she was calling out. But there was no answer. And then she felt something move, close by. Very close. Her skin crawled and, though she could see nothing, nothing at all, she stumbled to her feet and tried to run from that sound, the dry insistent rustle of someone, something, moving toward her in the dark. But her legs, her feet, were so heavy she could not make them function.

Her senses, all her senses, strained to understand what was happening. Then a thing like a feather touched her cheek. Soft, smelling of dust, faintly sweet. And she understood, as she was meant to. Grave clothes—that was what she felt against her skin. She could not see them, but the picture was there: a pale, fine shroud filled with formless dust. The dust of the dead.

She tried to scream, but an object brushed against her throat and the sound stopped.

Look
.

No voice spoke that word, but a light burned in the dark and Anne saw it. Saw what it was. A disembodied hand, each finger flaming at its tip.

See
.

The burning hand beckoned, once, twice, and then a third time. Anne felt herself pulled forward and her legs jerked, trying to move of their own accord. She did not want to approach that flaring, sulfurous-smelling thing. But she was walking, closer and closer to the hand. It was beckoning, beckoning her closer. Now she could smell the fingers as they burned and smoked. Like a pig on a spit, like pork meat.

Anne's belly heaved and vomit filled her mouth. She stumbled, nearly fell. She willed her legs to stop; they disobeyed her. The
hand crackled as the flesh of its fingers was consumed before her eyes. She felt the heat on her face. Now there was only bone, held together with glistening, blackened, twisted sinew. Then the bone itself was flame, a bunch of twigs, cracking and popping.

At the last, what was left revolved in space and pointed at her.
Be warned
. Then it was gone, the fire extinguished, though Anne could still smell the greasy smoke.

“Why be warned? I do not fear you, Anne.” Edward was lying in the straw, amused, confident. Waiting for her to come to him. Anne collapsed against Edward's chest as if her own bones had been consumed in the flames. She lay there, heart bruising her ribs, breathing like a forge bellows, but grateful, so grateful, to be out of the dark. She could not speak.

“Tell me, my darling. What am I to be warned against? This?” He slipped one hand down the bodice of her dress and found her breast. “You burn me, Anne,” he whispered into the hollow of her throat. “You burn my hand where it touches you.”

His words shocked her, but then she heard her own voice respond. “Oh, my love.” Her mouth spoke her mind.

“We'll get through this, together. Charles will help us because he must, and when it's all over, you'll come back to England with me. For good. Promise me that. I want your word. No prevarication.” Edward gazed at her, both hands gently cupping her face as he spoke, soft and low. “Am I still your king? Will you obey me in this?”

She was saved from reply by a man's cautious whistle. Then his voice. “Liege? Are you there?”

Putting a finger to his lips, Edward kissed Anne once, hard, then laid her gently back on the straw.

“Your Majesty?”

Edward wriggled forward to the edge of the loft. “Yes, William. I hear you.” It was a large barn and the threshing floor was fifteen feet below as Edward looked down on his shabby chamberlain.

“Lord King, you must come at once. An important development.”

“So mysterious, William. But first, do you know how dirty you are? My chamberlain looks like a hayseed.”

William looked down at his filthy boots and muddy breeches. The king was right. Somewhat fruitlessly, he slapped at his leather jerkin, raising dust. Edward, meanwhile, descended the hayloft ladder with the unnerving speed of a cat.

“Have you seen Lady Anne this morning, William? Is her presence also required for this ‘important development'?” William, apparently engrossed with stamping mud off his boots, kept a miraculously straight face. “Most assuredly, Your Majesty. Mistress Deborah is searching for her now.”

Above, in the straw, Anne felt terrified still by the burning hand, but embarrassment now blurred the edges of that grim vision. Then such a gust of laughter swept up from her chest she had to stuff fingers in her mouth to stop it. How would she exit this barn unseen?

“Let us go then, William. I see my criticism of your clothes could as well be applied to my own. I must change.”

As the two men hurried out of the barn, William's words floated off into the morning breeze. “There's also the matter of the straw, Your Majesty. In the hair…”

There was silence for a moment. Then another voice: Deborah's.

“Anne? Anne, you must come down. Immediately. We have a visitor.”

The duchess of Burgundy was spoken of as having “the common touch,” and it was true. It had never been better employed, this gift of making all she met feel important, than sitting today in the parlor of Anne's farmhouse, waiting for her brother and her hostess to make their appearance.