The Uncrowned Queen (25 page)

“Anne, we have fenced enough.”

There was no escape now. “Fenced?”

“The seaman. The man who said he was your husband. Are you his wife?”

She expelled her breath in a sigh, and would have told him the truth except that they both heard voices outside her door.

“Stop, Edward. Please?” she whispered urgently to the king. Frustrated, he kept her there, pinioned. “No. Tell me.”

Urgent knocking at the door was followed by Richard of Gloucester's voice. “Lady Anne? Are you there? Have you seen the king?”

“One moment, Lord Richard.” Anne was wriggling, trying to squirm out of Edward's arms, but he would not let her go. They were both half laughing because it was so absurd.

“Edward, please let me go. This is embarrassing.”

“Tell me. Now!” It was a mock-fierce whisper; he was enjoying the fight. Anne was stronger than she looked as she twisted and pushed at his chest.

“Lady Anne?” Richard could hear the scuffles and was embarrassed, but he needed to speak with his brother.

“I shall call Richard in to witness your disobedience if you don't tell me!”

“My disobedience! Oh!”

She really was angry now, infuriated by the king's obvious enjoyment of the situation. Thoroughly riled, she spoke without thought. “No, I am not married to him. There!”

She used that moment when her answer caught the king off guard: one determined push and she was free. Edward sprawled on the floor in a long heap of arms and legs as she marched to the door. Hauling it open, she found the bewildered duke of Gloucester staring at her. Lady Anne de Bohun tossed her head and stamped past, throwing over her shoulder some very disrespectful words from a subject to a king. “He. That man. He is
impossible!”

Richard was bemused. And looked it. On the floor, his brother rolled onto his back, convulsed with laughter.

“One to me. One to me, Anne!”

That was too much. Anne ran back up the stairs and into her room, confronting both of them with her hands on her hips and the light of battle in her eye.

“The game is not over yet! Just you wait and see, Edward Plan-tagenet—not everyone does your bidding just because you are who you are!”

Edward scrambled to his feet and made her a deep bow. “Of course not, dear lady. But one thing I would ask.”

Anne was icy. “And what is that?”

“Please to keep your voice down or you'll wake the child.”

“Oh!”

Both men heard the fury as Anne turned her back and clattered
back down the stairs toward the kitchen. Edward wiped the tears from his eyes as the suppressed laughter from both men erupted into guffaws.

“Got a bit of a temper that one, hasn't she?”

The king nodded, and sighed happily. “Yes, she has. But a warm one.”

“Unlike—” Richard had been going to say “the queen,” but thought better of it. Elizabeth Wydeville was famous for her icy rages.

Edward glanced at his brother as he brushed the knees of his hose and the sleeves of his jacket for imaginary dust. Anne's was a very clean house, but the gesture bought him a pause. “Still, it was worth chancing the storm for what I know now.”

Richard waited for enlightenment but, as none was forthcoming from his suddenly fastidious brother, remembered what he'd come to say. “Dispatches. From Charles. At last!”

The line of charcoal braziers placed at the bottom of the steps leading toward the throne sent pungent smoke into the stale air of the Presence chamber. So much smoke that the courtiers could hardly see the king through the veil of burning wormwood, rue, spikenard, and myrrh. Louis himself, irascible because of pain from two sources—his pustulent legs and his griping belly—was hung about with so many tiny reliquaries and crosses for protection that he rustled and faintly rattled when he moved. He held a rosary in his hands, too, an especially valuable one of chalcedony, amber, and gold, and he allowed the beads to slip through his fingers one by one as he spoke. They clicked like crickets, punctuating the king's words. It set the teeth of his courtiers on edge, as Louis knew it would.

“Brother (
click
) Agonistes (
click
), we (
click
) hear (
click
) much (
click
) of (
click
) your (
click
) skill (
click
) with (
click
) herbs (
click
)?”

The gaunt man, dressed in shabby robes so old and patched that they were green-gray rather than black, bowed silently, his hands hidden within wide sleeves.

Silence without fear always surprised the king. He stopped clicking. “But yet you are not a leech, a doctor?” Louis de Valois was suspicious. Why did the man not answer him? “I want no doctors about my person, be certain of that.”

The monk raised his head and looked into the eyes of the king; his own were calm and clear. He sketched a cross in the
air before he spoke. Was he trying to protect himself or bless the king?

“It is true that, once, I was a doctor at the court of the English king, Your Majesty, but I renounced that place, and my worldly past, some years ago. Now I do not give myself that title for it was the source of my undoing. I study herblore and use it in the service of all poor men who need my help. Herbs are simple things and, being created by God”—he crossed himself and all in the Presence chamber, including the king, followed suit—“cannot be evil since they were set upon this Earth by Him to do His good purposes. Unlike the work of a man's hands, which can be turned to evil.”

Louis looked at the man measuringly. Perhaps this monk was touched by the Holy Spirit, since he spoke with such passion. Possibly he was traitorous also, though to his former master. The king frowned. He might despise many of his fellow monarchs, but disrespect for the office itself was close to blasphemy.

“Which English king did you serve?”

The monk bowed deeply. “I prefer, Your Majesty, to dwell in the present. I belong to God now, not Satan, and I bless the Father's gracious Son, our Lord, each and every one of my days that I am removed here to Paris from that evil place and its temptations.”

There, it had happened again: this man was refusing to answer him, and he was not afraid. The French king was truly intrigued.

“Evil, you say? How was the English court evil?”

Brother Agonistes dropped to his knees, then lay full length on his face in front of Louis, an ungainly lump on the floor. The heavy smoke from the braziers seemed to flow over him, forming a filmy cloak so that he was almost hidden from sight. Beneath the moving, gray blanket of smoke, the monk began to cough, tears sprouting from his eyes. He spoke between the spasms.

“Do not, I beg you, ask me to recount the pits and snares of that place. My soul was made foul by sin and should I live to be three score years and ten, as the Bible says, I will never lose the taint of it. My only salvation lies among my brothers and the poor, of whom I am the last and the least, and whom it is my honor and penance to serve.”

The king turned and raised his eyebrows at his valet, Levaux,
standing behind the Presence chair. It was a very long time since he'd been amazed, or indeed amused, by human behavior, but this display was as good as an entertainment by any of the mummers at court.

The king let the monk lie there, gasping, as he thought about his words, but when he scratched his unbearably hot and itchy shins, his fingers came away bloody. Agony arced from his legs up into his groin, where it formed a burning knot with the ache in his belly. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, fighting the nausea brought on by the pain. Unconsciously, he groaned.

The courtiers shuffled and glanced at each other. The king looked shocking, from what they could see of him through the smoke, gray and sweating. But then, he always looked like that.

Louis's valet, no less amazed by the strange behavior of the monk, was aware that time was passing. Brother Agonistes was no closer to performing his duty—the duty that was the key to advancement for the patron who had brought him to the king: himself, Alaunce Levaux. And to the salvation of France.

“Brother Agonistes, as you know, the king has particular need of your counsel in regard to his health—” Louis held up one bony hand. The itch on his legs burned so much it ached, but he dared not scratch again. “Certainly, that is the case, but I wish to consult with this holy brother privately.”

On the floor, the monk had covered his face with his two hands and, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, was loudly chanting a prayer into the flags of the Presence chamber, much to the bemusement of the courtiers.

Levaux, who spoke no Latin, did not understand what the man was saying, but the king did. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…” Louis raised his voice so that all in the Presence chamber could hear him.

“Brother, we thank you for your care of the poor of our kingdom, and we are grateful that you have consented to give us the benefit of your wisdom. God, it is said”—all those present crossed themselves, even the man on the floor—“moves in mysterious ways to accomplish His purposes. It may be that you have been sent here, to the court of France, as a test of your courage and your faith.”

The monk ceased to pray, but he did not remove his hands from his face. He was listening.

“Clear the chamber!” Louis clapped his hands decisively and ignored the pleading looks from his advisors. This would be a private conversation. The reluctant courtiers shuffled from the room, leaving only the king, his valet, and the monk.

“Come, Brother, I shall not hurt you.”

The monk spoke in a monotone from his place on the floor. “I have only one king, Your Majesty, and He is in heaven. My earthly fate lies in your hands, but my soul”—the man shuddered, as if taken by a rigor—“my soul lies at the feet of the Lord, sinner that I am.”

The king was conscious of growing annoyance. His foot began tapping, striking terror into the heart of Levaux. If this wretched monk could not be brought to speak with the king about his ailments, he would be blamed. And that would be the end of everything for him, and for his family. And, possibly, for the country.

Suddenly inspired, the valet caught Louis's eye. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

The king nodded, impatient and bewildered. Soon he would become angry—he could feel the burning as it began in his chest, always a clear sign of what would come. He quite enjoyed his rages, but poor Levaux gulped when he saw the king's expression darken. He hurried to where the monk lay and knelt down beside him. Clasping his hands, as if to pray, he spoke softly into the monk's ear.

“Brother Agonistes, we are all brothers in Christ, are we not?”

“That is so. Bereft and alone we are born, bereft we die and all is turned to dust.” The monk sounded pleased at the thought, but the valet hurried on.

“Your brother, the king”—it was a bold thought, but so surprising that Louis said nothing, confused by the unusual notion—“needs your help. He suffers for his kingdom, as Christ did for His.”

The monk looked up, startled. Levaux pressed on, ignoring the fear that was a cold hand fingering his liver and his tripes.

“And if Christ bore five wounds for His people, my Lord the King bears five times five. His suffering is very great. And God”—they all crossed themselves—“has brought you here so that His servant,
your brother, the king, may be healed by your special knowledge. You are a lucky man indeed this day to be about God's purposes.”

Brother Agonistes looked bewildered but then nodded. “Yes. That must be so. Yes! This must be a test of my faith and my devotion, as my dear brother in Christ, the king, has said. I must face what I fear. I must welcome it.”

The monk was on his feet now, eyes to Heaven—or in this case, the high vaulted ceiling of the chilly Presence chamber. “I am here to serve my brother!”