The Uncrowned Queen (26 page)

Louis rolled his own eyes. If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would have laughed at the idiotic solemnity of the man. Plainly, Brother Agonistes was mad, but did that matter if he could stop the burning, gripping pain in his legs and staunch the agony in his belly?

The monk's eyes were lamps lit by zeal as he advanced up the steps toward the Presence chair, telling the beads from his rosary as he came.

Louis shrank back into the throne, suddenly frightened by the look in the man's eyes. He had willingly committed himself into the hands of this lunatic. What if the monk had a knife? But then Agonistes was by his side and his eyes were gentle as a mother's with her tiny child. “Where is the pain, brother? Let me heal you, for that is the Lord's wish, I feel sure.”

Wonderingly, Louis found himself raising the hem of his robe as if the action were the most natural thing in the world. He and the monk were wreathed in the smoke from the braziers as the man gently probed his shins. And then the king remembered: myrrh. Was it not used for laying out the dead? Louis was deeply superstitious. The smoke from the fire of his own making was an omen—he was suddenly convinced of it. “Am I dying?”

The monk sighed, dropping the hem of the king's robe and wiping his fingers, which were dabbled with blood and pus, on the skirt of his habit.

“No, brother King. You have an imbalance of the humors, that is clear, but such a one as can be healed. Your body is weakened and I can make it strong again. I will help your earthly pain and, God willing, that of your soul also.”

“You will?” Louis was suddenly limp with relief. And conviction. This monk might be a holy fool, but perhaps God had sent him. God, his fellow monarch on another plane.

The monk nodded and sketched a cross over the king's head. “Please, open your mouth, Your Majesty.”

Obediently, like a child, the king strained to open his mouth as widely as he could.

“Ah, yes, I see what it is.”

“You do? Truly?”

“It is the sickness that comes from too much meat in winter and no green herbs. And not enough correctly directed prayer. First, the teeth become loose and then these”—the monk gestured to the sores and bruising beneath the king's robes—“erupt. In your case, too, there is greater danger. Do dogs sleep on your bed, my brother?”

The king looked at the man, astonished by his question. “Of course. Why?”

“Fleas, sire. With your blood in such a weakened state, the fleas from your animals have bitten you with great relish. Corrupted blood is their greatest joy; they like its taste. And the bites have suppurated because of the weakness of your body.”

“Not poisoned boots?”

The valet avoided the eye of the king; his own legs were weak with fear.

The monk shook his head solemnly. “No, my brother, your boots were not poisoned.”

Instant sweat soaked Levaux like a gush of clear water.

“What must I do, Brother?”

“Obey me, oh King, for I am the voice of the Lord. He will guide me, for you are His deputy on Earth, set over His earthly subjects to rule them in His name.”

The king crossed himself and, catching up the rosary that swung from the monk's girdle, kissed the little ivory body of the Christ figure that hung from its end.

Later, as Louis prayed beside Brother Agonistes for the restoration of his health, kneeling like his “brother,” the monk, on the bare stone before the high altar of his own private chapel, one
small corner of the king's brain remembered. The monk had spoken of the evil at the English court. All the prayers in the world would not banish the curiosity of that thought from his mind.

At dinner, obediently eating an unusually meager supper of pickled cabbage and bitter green herbs sourced from the monk's own physic garden, Louis gave words to the question.

“Brother, what was the evil you escaped from at the English court?”

Brother Agonistes trembled and sank to his knees, closing his eyes as he crossed himself repeatedly.

“Come, Brother, I have done what you asked. Now it is your turn. Does this evil have a name?”

“Yes. Its name was woman. The paramour of the king.” The monk spat the words and seemed about to vomit with revulsion.

Louis was thrilled. Gossip! He loved gossip, though he crossed himself in apparently pious concern. “His paramour, you say? Who?”

The monk looked up and his eyes were dark holes. He whispered the name so faintly that Louis de Valois had to lean down to hear it—much to the disappointment of Alaunce Levaux, who was too far away to catch the monk's words.

“Anne. Anne de Bohun. King Edward's slut, the creature of the Evil One and the cause of my undoing.”

Louis shook his head, a suitably horrified expression on his face. But he stored away the name. He had a talent for such things. Unexpected information was often so very useful.

“Where are we going, Captain?”

“To Delft, de Plassy.”

“Is it far, do you think?”

“Far enough.”

“Ah well, it is pleasant enough tonight. We shall enjoy our stroll.” Julian de Plassy looked at his companion and laughed, for the rain was relentless, driving full in their faces and bitterly cold. Shrugging when he received no response, the Frenchman furled his cloak around his body and settled his raffish hat more firmly as he hurried on beside Leif Molnar. Prison quarters in the Binnenhof had done nothing for the quality of either adornment, but de Plassy was philosophical. They were free, all of them, with the promise of a sea passage south if they could just beat any pursuit on this God-dark night.

“Your boat, Captain…?”

“My ship—yes, what of it?”

“You are sure, my friend, that she will have been mended by this time?”

“Monsieur de Plassy, I am certain of nothing. But if God is good, we have a chance. We will need that chance.”

Unconsciously Leif Molnar's fingers strayed to the sign of Thor around his neck. All these long, weary days while he'd paced his prison cell alone, beneath the gate of the Binnenhof—three paces up, three paces across, three paces down—he'd kept up an
unspoken prayer to Thor, Lord of Thunder, God of War. “Hear me, Hammer-God, hear your servant. Help me, and the first black goat I see when I am out of this place I shall sacrifice to you. Hear me, help me!”

He had blamed Edward Plantagenet for his captivity. They would not let him go while the English king remained the “guest” of Louis de Gruuthuse; the Dane knew he was too much of a threat to be allowed liberty. But then came the night when he was hauled from his prison. He had expected death; instead, without explanation, he'd been pushed into a much larger room with three barred windows high up in its walls. A room filled with Frenchmen—Julian de Plassy's wolvesheads. He found out later that Edward Plantagenet had escaped some days since.

His new companions stank, but so did he. More important, the Frenchmen were still strong; none of them was sick. Leif was grateful: sharing close quarters in a prison was often a death sentence, but the reason for the Frenchmen's continuing health was quickly clear—better food than he'd been getting and clean air from the open windows, day and night. Cold air, certainly, but sweet.

Leif recovered his strength and found common cause with his new companions. Together, they began to plot a way out of the Binnenhof. Freedom and the
Lady Margaret
beckoned. Hopefully she was now repaired and sitting in the pool of Delft, and, no doubt, by now had built up formidable fees for wharfage. They'd deal with that when they got there.

“We have been lucky thus far, have we not, my Danish friend?” said Julian de Plassy.

Head down to keep as much rain as possible out of his eyes, Leif nodded in agreement. “Some would describe it as such. Not me, though. I believe in planning.”

The bantam Frenchman looked back at his men, plodding behind them like subdued but faithful dogs. The euphoria of sudden freedom had washed away in the freezing rain.

“Ah yes, but who could have planned for this?” He waved the good sword he'd captured. “Or that?” He pointed to the long dagger stuck through the rope Leif now called a belt. The knife was
handsomely worked, with a jewel-set pommel, and therefore valuable. “Or, indeed, for the unprepared foolishness of those we met. And this weather—this witch-black night to hide us? Surely, surely, that is luck?”

Leif nodded and actually smiled at the man who had become a friend. “Your men fought well. Perhaps, in the end, I agree. We were favored with luck.”

His fingers strayed to Thor's hammer again. After all his prayers, the God of War had finally sent the storm—and such a storm—and the mist that had providentially covered them once they had escaped the Binnenhof. That was after their guard had been foolish enough to stray too close to the door of their cell; more foolish still to open that door in response to the yells, howls, and cries from the men inside. There had been fighting, shouting, confusion, blood flying like paint in a cathedral workshop—but they had broken out from s'Gravenhague with only two men of their own dead, and many wounded and dying Hollanders left behind to tell the tale of the escape of the men forgotten by the sieur de Gruuthuse. And now they were marching, in reasonable order, to Delft. And the
Lady Margaret
.

But was Anne alive or dead? Leif did not know.

After the rain stopped there
was moonlight to guide them. The Bible spoke of the power of the moon to “smite.” An active word, a threatening word, but how could such an elusive glimmer be dangerous? Unless there was otherworldly magic in it and that was where the danger lay.

Anne and the king rode through the woods of the duke of Burgundy's hunting park outside Brugge. They were alone together and silent, each focused on what must be done, and yet they now shared knowledge that could dictate the future. Knowledge that had an almost magical power to transform both their lives.

Edward knew that Anne was not married. The king tingled when he thought of it. No excuses now.

“There. Do you see?” Anne reined in her horse and pointed
ahead to where light, warm and yellow, gleamed for a moment among dark trees.

“Where?” Edward stopped his horse beside hers; he could see nothing.

“There. There it is!”

This time the uncovered lantern described an arc in the night. And then blinked out.

“Come.” Edward took the lead, nudging his horse to a trot along the faint bridle path. Anne had led this far, since she had ridden this forest countless times, hunting with the duke and duchess. But it was the king's turn now; he'd not let a woman ride first into possible danger. The memory of light burns behind the eyelids even when it's gone, and this light, this humble lantern glowing in the dark, stayed with Edward all the rest of his life. It was the turning point—a light lit by fate to show the way into the future.

“Your Majesty?”

The accent was French and Edward's hands clenched on the reins. His horse threw up its head, startled, as the mounted man appeared on the path. But then the lantern shone on the stranger's face and Edward recognized who it was. When he spoke his voice was calmer than he felt.

“Monsieur de Commynes. You are well?”

“Exceedingly so, sire.”

Philippe de Commynes bowed low over his horse's neck, first to the king and then to his companion. Beneath the deep hood of her cloak, Anne's face was veiled so he had no clue to her identity.

“My master is close. If you would follow me?”

The king gestured for the man to precede them, but insisted that Anne ride behind the messenger while he himself brought up the rear. Anne sat straighter in the saddle. She fixed her attention on the pale horse ahead—the swaying cream tail was an easy marker to follow. It was comforting that Edward was guarding her back on this strange, glimmering night. The rising full moon cast the trees into stark shapes as they rode deeper and deeper into the woods toward—what?

The small hunting lodge showed few lights when the party of
riders entered the clearing. It was not a noble building, more a homely, convenient hideaway for Charles of Burgundy when he wished to escape the ceremonial weight of his days at court. A place where he could retire with a few well-favored friends and relax, free from prying eyes. Edward reined in his horse. He understood entirely why Charles would wish to meet him in this obscure place, but he was dismayed. Such discretion was not optimistic to his cause.

Anne glanced back at the king and smiled; white teeth gleamed through the sarcenet veil as they caught the light. She leaned over to speak to him. “All will be well, Your Majesty. I feel it.”

Edward dismounted and turned to assist Anne from her saddle. “Are you a witch then, that you can see the future?”

It was meant as a harmless joke but Philippe de Commynes turned and stared at them, startled. He had heard the word “witch”; it made him fearful. One did not laugh about such things.