The Uncrowned Queen (31 page)

“…you must know that the Whore of Babylon exists in your midst and pollutes this place with her lusts and her sorcery, for she is a witch! And does not the Bible say, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'? Seek her out, brother duke, burn her! Cleanse this place of her evil or you shall be lost and all your people with you.”

Margaret grimaced. Homily or no, the monk was stepping over the line in accusing the duke of personally harboring a witch. How ridiculous. How primitive!

“Husband, perhaps we have heard enough? The food grows cold.”

Charles shot Margaret a glance and raised his eyebrows as if to say, And what would you have me do? He patted her hand and whispered back, “It will be over soon.”

This time, the duchess distinctly heard her husband's stomach
growl and suppressed the urge to giggle. She returned her attention to the monk. Something about him—was it the voice?—tweaked a distant memory, which unsettled her. She had seen this man before. Where? Margaret scanned the hall for Philippe de Commynes; she wanted more information, for the monk's accent was decidedly odd for a Frenchman. Was that an English cast she heard in his rantings? How could that be?

As she glanced around, Margaret saw that the courtiers were riveted; the reference to sorcery had sent a buzz around the hall. It was said that sinners were easy prey for devils and witches, for they could see your sin, just as if you wore a bright red dress. More than one guilty conscience in the hall listened with mounting dread.

“Hear me!” the monk ranted. “Absorb my words most carefully! You are all damned and these end-times prove it. Hear also the precious words of John, the Divine. God is coming, arrayed for battle, and this mighty city will be cast down—cast down!—because you, you who are all alike in this great hall, are smeared by the sins of lust and pride. Only repentance, today, here and now on the anniversary of our Savior's birth, will snatch you—yes, you pretty lady, and you, handsome sir—from Satan's terrible jaws.”

One of Margaret's youngest waiting women, taking it all to heart, burst into tears. The monk swept on.

“But there is one here today who is worse than any of you. It is she, in all her loathsomeness, she who has brought war to your door. Yes! And I will name her, I will name this witch, for, oh, she is cunning, and oh, she is powerful. She has corrupted you with a false glamour so that you cannot see her scaly claws, her bloody fangs. She is Satan's lure and of the many men she has ruined, how many more will she yet destroy if you do not hear my words.”

Neighbor was peering fearfully at neighbor, and a rising babble of sound grew so that the monk had to shout, his spittle flying through the light of the torches.

“Act to root her out from her rancid bed of destruction, her bed of infamy, so that you may be saved in doing God's work, here, today! Adulteress, whore of kings, chalice of evil, to drink from that cup is to drink Hell's fire and think it the most sweet wine…”

The duchess had had enough. In the last weeks, fear had unsettled
Brugge as constant rumors of destruction and war swept the city. At times such as these, people would believe anything and here, at this feast, it was as if this fool was speaking of a real person, a real woman, as a Jonah, the cause of all their problems.

Unwillingly, Margaret fastened her eyes on those of the monk—he was scanning the hall like a hawk seeking prey; he was searching for someone. Then he paused, theatrically. And smiled, exposing rotted teeth.

Raising a sticklike arm, he pointed.

The hall was instantly, breathlessly, silent.

Brother Agonistes leaned forward, eyes burning, and spoke again, in a reedy whisper. “I see you, woman. I know you. God knows you. But I am his instrument and your days of power are ended. Ended
now!”
His words finished in a scream.

There was a horrified buzz and, one by one, the courtiers swiveled their heads toward where the monk was pointing. His bony finger stabbed the air like a dagger, beckoning all to look, to see.

“There! There she sits in all her scarlet, loathsome pride. Witch! Adulterous whore of Edward Plantagenet! Succubus! Anne de Bohun, Anne de Bohun.
Anne de Bohun!”

The monk locked his gaze on Anne's as she rose from her bench to face him. And the entire hall saw that she wore red velvet.

“No! This is nonsense.” Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, spoke in a clear voice as she stood to defend her friend.

There was a collective gasp. Then utter silence.

Frowning, the duke stood also and waved his hand. The monk was to be removed.

Brother Agonistes smiled as he saw the guards approach him, pikes held ready should they be challenged. Calmly gazing down from his perch, the monk made the sign of the cross in two great sweeping movements and, bowing his head, made no resistance as the duke's servants shepherded him away. His work was done.

The town of Brugge was a heated mass of rumor after the feast. Was Anne de Bohun indeed the Jonah who had brought war to their gates? Was it all her fault? Was she a witch? The extravagant strangeness of the accusations—so bizarre, so unexpected—gave them a substance it was difficult to counter. Gossip became authority.

Consider the facts, only consider what was known!

Item—Brother Agonistes was a stranger to Brugge and said to be the personal healer to the body of the king of France.

Item—He was also known to be a holy man who had selflessly tended to the very poorest in the slums of Paris.

Item—This same monk had been introduced to the court by Philippe de Commynes, cousin of Duke Charles; a sponsor with the very highest connections.

Item—This humble brother knew Anne de Bohun's name. How could that be so, if God had not put knowledge of the facts into his mouth? Some shook their heads doubtfully, but others nodded. It seemed compelling, put that way. Perhaps it was true then, that she, Anne de Bohun, had personally brought disaster for the city because of her evil ways.

Anne's friends rallied. Nonsense! Superstition! Everyone likes the Lady Anne and she is popular with the town, the court, and the merchants of Brugge. Jealous of her good fortune and her beauty,
mean-spirited rivals are putting about malicious gossip—that's the key to this sorry story!

But many were not convinced. When the people of the town discussed these strange events, discussed her, they saw that Anne de Bohun was mysterious, had always been mysterious, ever since she'd come to live among them with her little nephew, more than three or four years ago.

Many remembered how rapidly and how, yes, even scandalously, she'd prospered once she set up to trade. She'd succeeded by her own efforts, even though the powerful English Merchant Adventurers in Brugge had opposed her. Had not rumors swirled around her even then? Rumors that her unnatural, unwomanlike success had been caused by sorcery? Nodding heads recalled that scandal well.

Wasn't it whispered then that Charles—their charming duke who liked women so very much—had protected the beautiful Lady Anne for reasons of his own?

The word “lust” floated, musklike, on the air.

But others, wishing to be fair to Anne de Bohun, said, Time has given the lie to that shameful rumor. Our duke has married our duchess, and fallen deeply in love with his wife.

Ah, said some, but our duchess was formerly the Lady Margaret of England. And now Louis, the king of France, desires to crush Burgundy because of our duchess's brother, the former king of England, Edward Plantagenet. And he was mentioned by the monk as well, did you hear that? Named as Lady Anne's lover.

A wise head in an alehouse piped up. “Someone tried to murder Anne de Bohun, didn't they, in the weeks before the wedding of the duke and duchess? That was very strange.”

And another said, “Stranger still that she nearly died, was sure to die, but survived. William Caxton's wife, for one, named Lady Anne for a whore. And a witch. And she was a most respectable lady, God rest her soul.”

Yet many who knew them both acknowledged that Maud Caxton had never liked Anne de Bohun, had always disapproved
of the English girl because, some said, her husband, William, the man who led the English Merchants, also lusted after the girl.

There it was, though: smoke from a barely acknowledged fire. Had Anne de Bohun been, in truth, an adulterous whore? With Caxton? With the duke?

All through the anniversary of Christ's birth, while the emotional temperature of the town rose and rose with this astonishing and developing scandal, the girl herself, this named “witch” and “whore,” said nothing, did nothing. She allowed her friend, the duchess, to defend her.

“This is ridiculous, Charles. You must see that?” Margaret of Burgundy strove for calm as she watched the duke pace up and down. His face was impassive but she knew that masked confusion—and doubt.

“The man is mad. Insane. What mystic or prophet—if he is truly God's creature—speaks with such venom? God is love. Especially at the season of his birth, when He came to us as a little child.” Margaret was convinced of the truth, but she knew the monk's words had caused sensational damage to her friend, bursting, as they had, like a dam of filth over Anne's head. “My Lord, what has passed today is astonishing, and we all saw it and we all heard it. But we all know it to be nonsense. Lady Anne de Bohun is my friend, as she is yours. As she is the friend of Burgundy and Brugge. She has proved that to me, and to you. That man, that spitting fool, has called her a witch and… other things. Yet you and I both know our friend. We know her for what she is. A kind lady who lives quietly and has the good of all at heart.”

Charles nodded as if he accepted every word. But Anne, mute, understood. Charles, duke of Burgundy, was mired in a terrible game of politics. What would he do, what could he say? Especially since Edward's name had been dragged into this sorry mess just before they were to meet, officially, for the first time on the following day.

The duke looked at them both. “Lady Anne, can you explain any of these accusations?”

Anne raised her head. Her eyes were huge and shadowed. “I think I know who he is. Brother Agonistes, I mean.”

Margaret sat down beside her friend, taking one unresponsive hand in her own.

“Once, he called himself Dr. Moss.”

The duchess jumped. “Yes, you're right! I knew there was something—”

“Margaret, let Lady Anne speak.”

“He came to my then master's house after I fainted in the abbey when Aveline… when my sister was churched. After the birth of her boy.”

Margaret and the duke looked at each other. “Your sister's son? Little Edward?”

Anne looked down at her hands and nodded. Partial truth was dangerous, but better some than none. Aveline's baby had indeed been called Edward, but he wasn't her Edward—not the little boy Anne called her nephew. She had always called Aveline her sister and passed off her own child, her own son, as that of her dear, dead friend. They had been sisters under the skin, and Anne had closed Aveline's eyes with pennies. She'd earned the right to call her such.

The duke turned to his wife. “Dr. Moss was a physician at your brother's court, madame?”

“Yes, Charles, he was. And a friend of the king's as well.”

Anne looked up. She would tell the truth now. “Yes, he was in favor at court. But he was more than the king's friend. He was a pander—oh, a very good one. Discreet, elegant and worldly, but—”

Margaret was astonished. “He supplied women to my brother?”

Anne nodded. And her eyes filled with tears of shame. “Me, he supplied me; though I did not know, at the time, that such was his intention. Moss made sure I came to court and was noticed by… by the king.” She had nearly called him “Edward.” “Moss thought to advance himself, using my body. But, in the end, he wanted me for himself.” She flushed with remembered anger. “He nearly destroyed me. Because—God help me—in the end, I fell in love with your brother, duchess, even though I knew it was wrong. And I nearly lost my soul because, by then, I knew…”

The duke was intrigued. An extraordinary story was emerging,
wrenched out of this girl sentence by sentence. “What did you know, Lady Anne?”

Should she tell them? She no longer held the proof of her birth. Perhaps the duke and duchess would not believe her. But she had little defense against the monk's accusations, and family helped each other. Didn't they?

Anne's voice was a whisper. “I knew who I was. Who I am. I am your cousin, duchess.” She stumbled on, not daring to look up. “I am the natural daughter of Henry VI, that poor distracted man, whom I have never met. And, Duke Charles, I must tell you the truth now.”

The duke's eyebrows rose and the duchess gazed, astonished and speechless, at her friend.

“The child I call my nephew is Edward's child, the child of a king of England, and the grandson of another.”

The duke was direct. “Does the king know all this?”