The Uncrowned Queen (27 page)

Anne saw the man's uneasy glance in the light that spilled from the opening door, but her sudden fear was extinguished as she looked down at the king. Edward Plantagenet had opened his arms wide—a blatant invitation. His smile was heart-stopping and he was focused, intently, on her.

“Come to me.” So few words, but there was such promise in them that, suddenly, she could not breathe.

Anne allowed herself to ease down into Edward's arms and, for one moment, stood close against his body; but then the muscles in his arms tensed around her.

“Brother. You are welcome.”

Startled, Anne stepped back and the sudden movement dislodged the hood of her cloak.

“And you also, Lady Anne.”

It was said with a certain irony and Anne blushed, dropping her head as she curtsied to the duke. Charles bowed ceremoniously to Edward before reaching down to raise Anne to her feet.

“Lady, my house is yours. The pleasure is greater for being unexpected.”

Edward laughed a little. “Well, without Lady Anne, I'd still be
riding around in circles, I suspect, since it took some time to find your messenger. All forest looks alike at night.”

Charles chuckled. “As is also said of cats and—” He stopped himself, but Anne knew what he had meant: “women.”

She raised her chin and smiled brilliantly at the duke as he conducted her into his hunting lodge. The moment of disrespect hurt, however, and Edward's frown told her that he, too, was offended on her behalf. It was unlike Charles to be coarse in front of a woman, especially since he understood so well the sensitivity of Anne's relationship to the king. Perhaps it was the first move in this complicated game they must all now play—a subtle signal that Edward could take nothing, nothing at all, for granted from his own, dear brother-in-law. The contest had changed: Charles was no longer the less-powerful partner in the game.

It was a still, cold night; the temperature was dropping outside the lodge. Soon, the air would freeze into fog and that would become a deep frost. Yet inside, the heat was intense—for more reasons than the enormous fire lit for their welcome.

Charles and Edward were now alone, seated on either side of the central fire pit in the hall. Compared to the Ridderzaal, the room was small and simply furnished with long benches and a few joint stools. A rough-made cupboard held pewter dishes and beakers and there was a single hanging on the lime-washed walls—a simple woolen curtain in muddy reds and deep blues slung from hooks near the ceiling. It billowed as a delinquent draft skirled sparks from the fire.

“Why?” Those who knew Edward Plantagenet well would have left the room, if they could, when he spoke thus. His voice was controlled but the hint was in his eyes; they were half closed and, under the lids, a frightening light burned. He was very angry.

But so was Charles. From guilt and—if he allowed himself to face it—from fear. “Edward, it grieves me but I ask you to understand. To support you now, with the French massing in Picardy just waiting to invade, is to invite war. And I am too stretched; Burgundy's resources are too stretched. I cannot support you until I know more of the situation in England and what Louis is doing. I cannot!”

“And yet, while I was immured at s'Gravenhague with de Gruuthuse—on your instructions, I think—I heard plentiful, well-sourced rumors that you were actually helping Warwick subdue my kingdom?” Edward was politely icy but now it was said, out in the open.

Charles got to his feet and threw the lees of his wine into the fire, where they hissed like a cat. He did not immediately answer, refilling his beaker from a jug that was warming by the open hearth.

“Well?” Edward was implacable and Charles turned to face those merciless eyes.

“A blind, brother. Merely a ruse. I did not give them much by way of aid, and it was only to buy myself time.”

Edward snorted. “Some might give it another name than ‘blind,' brother.”

Charles was caught by his own uncertainty. It was true: for some months he had been playing both ends against the middle, but, in the end, he'd been honest. What he wanted and needed was time; time to see the real shape of the situation as it developed now that Warwick held England for the Lancastrians, and time to rebuild his own armies against the certainty that, eventually, he would have to declare his hand and fight for his domains against whichever enemy declared itself first—France or England. Or, indeed, both together.

“You ask much, Edward. Too much. I must think of my own country first.”

“Your country? What country? You're not a king yet, Charles, and you never will be unless I can take back England and help you against Louis. You are a fool to place any faith in Warwick. How long do you think he'll last once Margaret of Anjou actually gets back into London? She'll sack the place and buy his destruction with what she loots there. Then Louis will turn on you, with her help, and the full weight of England will be behind them both. You are willfully blind!”

The two men were on their feet and dangerously close to the fire as they stared at each other, unblinking, two mastiffs each looking for the first opening, the first weakening, of his opponent.

Charles's voice shook with rage. “By God's entrails, Edward Plantagenet, I have but to call and men would take you from here for all your brave words. You cannot fight from a prison cell.”

The hair on Edward's nape was stiff and he could feel his scalp move as, wheat blond in the light from the fire, the hair on his head stood up. Suddenly he looked even more massive, more bulky, than before and the room was filled with the ozone of danger. Primeval fear shook Charles to his bowels, though he would not acknowledge it, even to himself.

Edward's voice was level, but only just, as he spoke, eyes boring into the duke's. “Do not think to do this, Charles. God will punish you. I am an anointed king. You are not.”

Charles blinked and dropped his glance. He did not mean to—he was a brave man, many, many times proved in battle—but the roiling fire in Edward's eyes filled him with superstitious dread. Edward Plantagenet might be the deposed king of his country and a usurper at that, yet, yes, he was still an anointed king. And he was filled with utter certainty. Perhaps kings understood their holy office better than did mere dukes.

Annoyed and humiliated by his confusion, Charles wiped a hand across his eyes, as if to physically brush truth away like an annoying insect. “It remains, however, that you are, officially, without support. And whatever happens in the future, for now Louis must go on thinking that. I cannot be seen to give you aid. Not now, not at this moment. It is not the right time to make best advantage.”

“Time has all but run its course in this matter, Charles.”

The duke was drained, unutterably weary. He had been dreading this interview, had even thought of riding away, out of Brugge, to join his troops massing on the southern borders where Burgundy marched with France, anything to avoid meeting Edward. But, in the end, curiosity and the last torn fragments of compassion had made him agree to this meeting. These things, and his marriage. Margaret was dear to him, and Edward had been his friend; was, strangely, his friend yet.

The duke sighed and leaned over to pour red wine into Edward's empty beaker before refilling his own. “I cannot agree, my friend. It is hard to see the future, very hard. What my heart
says and what my head says are two different things. And we must hold our nerve in this. Together.”

Edward said nothing, but held out his full beaker and the duke, reluctantly, touched it with his own.

“The future? I can help you with that, brother. I always have, I always will.” Edward smiled and it was unexpectedly sweet. Charles could not help himself; he smiled in return. He'd known Edward since he was a boy, and that counted for something even in these fraught times.

The talk continued as long as the night lasted; the king and the duke wrangling and arguing back and forth, seeking a solution to their opposing needs. They spoke freely, believing themselves alone. But they were not.

Philippe de Commynes heard each word that was spoken as he sat in a spy-perch, high up in the shadows among the beams supporting the pitch of the roof. He alone knew of its existence and it had proved most useful—especially lately. Especially tonight. After hunting, when men sat drinking, Philippe would sometimes excuse himself for bed, only to climb up beneath the tiles of the roof and crawl on his belly along the narrow plankway among the roof timbers, created so that the structure could be inspected from time to time. There he would lie and listen to what was said far below him by the duke and his closest companions as they fell deeper and deeper into their cups. Later, he would write down all that he had heard.

It was here that he'd understood the contempt in which the duke held him—his own cousin—and heard the laughter that erupted every time they called him Boothead; an experience that had curdled his heart, and his loyalty.

Tonight, as he looked down coldly upon a deposed king and an aspirant king, Philippe de Commynes knew that the wheel of fortune had turned and he was riding up. Yes, tonight was most fortunate for him, and even more so for Louis de Valois. For if he had saved the French king's life once, how much more grateful would Louis be when Philippe saved his kingdom?

“How much is the kingdom worth to you, Edward?” Anne had spent the night in the kitchen of the hunting lodge. At first she'd waited for the men to finish talking so that she and Edward could return to her farm, but in the end she'd gone to sleep, head on her arms on the trestle table, and awoken there stiff and cold when Edward roused her at dawn. She and the silent king were riding back toward Riverstead Farm in the first light, and she could see Edward was brooding on his thoughts.

“Any price I have to pay. Except you.” He glimmered a smile, making an effort to be cheerful for her sake.

“Why?”

“Why what? Or why you?”

Now she too laughed, and reined in her horse so that the pretty mare snuffled a protest at such contrary directions, hands and heels, from her mistress.

“Do you never think of refusing to pay what is asked of you?”

Their horses were side by side on the bridle path at the river's edge, and human and animal breath joined, smoking, in the cold morning as a winter sun struggled up from the east.

Edward leaned over and rearranged a tendril of Anne's hair that had escaped onto her cheek. His touch lingered. He traced the shape of her cheek, her nose, the outline of her mouth, with one gloved finger. She closed her eyes. She couldn't help it.

The king's voice was husky when he spoke. “I'd take the glove off, but the cold is savage.”

That made them both laugh, giddily: two sillies caught up in the nearness of each other. The horses stamped and tried to circle, impatient with the chill and being made to stand there.

“I was serious, Edward.” She caught one of his hands and held it to her face, cradling it.

He sighed and leaned toward her, kissing her softly on the lips; a cold kiss, but heat ignited them both.

“I know. But I cannot answer you. I am fearful of the question.”

They were lost together, alone in the world as it came awake and, as he gazed at her and she at him, fear ebbed away. All that was left was the sound of their breathing and the restless stamping and snuffling of the horses.

“We should return to the farm.” Anne's mouth was dry as she spoke. Could words be a shield? Or a rope to tow the drowning to the safety of the shore?

“The world is full of should and would, my darling. Do you love me? Do you love me enough?”

It was an unfair question. He knew that. “How do I answer? I do not think in terms of measure or dimension, Edward.”

The king slipped one hand out of its riding gauntlet and around her waist under her cloak as their horses stood side by side. Her body was warm, he could feel the heat through her clothes; and she smelled, faintly, of roses.

“Enough, for me, means following your heart without thought, without restraint.”

Anne shook her head to clear it, to resist the siren song, but she was torn. She could feel reason loosing its grip as he leaned toward her from the height of his horse and kissed the beating hollow at the base of her throat. Suddenly, he wheeled his stallion, spurred it, and was off at a canter and then a dangerous gallop, spurring down the bridle path toward the boundary stone of the farm just up ahead. But instead of turning toward the farm buildings, he rode on until a curve in the riverbank took him from her sight.

Anne, shaken by Edward's touch, by his smell, gathered her
horse by instinct, tightened the reins, and settled herself in the saddle. Her mare, fresh from a night of rest, needed no other signal. She danced for a moment, then sprang away with such force that Anne was nearly unseated.

It was a wild, wild ride. The rushing air whipped bright blood into Anne's face and exhilaration made her giddy as with wine. She could see the king up ahead, his cloak flying out behind him as his horse ate the distance with its stride. But then, as she turned her head to avoid the naked branch of a tree and looked back—he was gone. Gone where?