The Uncrowned Queen (35 page)

Duke Charles narrowed his eyes for a moment at the graceful sight advancing toward him. Was it fair that one man should be given so much physical beauty? Perhaps this fact alone was the source of all of Edward's travails? The duke swallowed a sigh and shook himself slightly at the absurdity of the thought. So be it. Let them gamble with fate once more.

Bowing to Edward from the waist, Charles stepped forward and spoke first. “Your Majesty, at last we meet.”

Edward bowed too, a little less low, in a rustle of expensive cloth. In the air was the scent of powdered orris root. “It has been too long, brother. How delightful it is to be here in your enchanting city once more. Truly, Brugge is most noble and this, your palace, one of its greatest adornments. How charmed we are to stand here in this place of such happy memories.”

Not even the shadow of irony entered Edward's tone as, smilingly, his sister gave him her hand to kiss. “Dearest Duchess. We find you well?” It was effortless to switch back to the speech of a royal personage—that person he'd been for nearly ten years.

The duchess curtsied in reply. “Very well. I thank Your Majesty for asking.”

Her eyes were cast down to the flagged floor, but Margaret glanced up quickly at her brother when Charles was momentarily distracted. I have news, said that look.

Edward raised his eyebrows, but could not reply for, at that moment, the steward of the Prinsenhof was bowing him toward a Chair of State. Heavily carved, richly gilded, the chair was placed on a small riser on the very top of the dais itself, thus ensuring Edward sat fractionally higher than his host and hostess.

Optimism wound a diamond-bright thread around Edward Plantagenet's heart. Perhaps all truly would be well? Charles's reception was that of a duke to a reigning monarch, but the king had eaten confusion and disappointment for more than two months. The richness of this feast today was still suspect until it was consumed and paid for. And there was Anne to think of. Never forget Anne.

After a nod from her husband, the duchess spoke out clearly for all the court to hear. “We have an old friend for you to meet, Your Majesty.”

“An old friend—how delightful that will be.” Airy court phrases, so long perfected among them all. But would former ways of speaking, and seeing, be sufficient now?

Edward turned toward the door of the Presence chamber as it opened again, and this time his smile was deeply amused, as was that of the man who advanced toward him up the length of the chamber. “Louis! Or perhaps more properly in this city of yours, Lodewijk, my dear friend. Has it truly been an age since last we saw each other? Time moves so fast, I swear it only feels like days. I look forward to another hunt together, when there is more time.”

Louis de Gruuthuse smiled and bowed as he made his way up the hall. “An age, Your Majesty? Surely not. But how delightful it would be to ride out with you once more. Under easier circumstances than hunts of the past, of course.”

Edward laughed, freely and loudly. “Ah, my friend, how pleasing it is to see you. Again.” The last word was heavily ironic, its significance lost on all but a very few in the Presence chamber.

Charles turned to Edward. “I asked my governor to return to us from the north. We have need of his advice since Louis de Valois is spreading his net to catch us all up.” There, it was said. The time for pretty speeches was past.

Edward nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, there is much to be said and much to speak of. But we are all friends here, and comrades. Louis de Valois is nothing to us if we act. Together.”

Dread crawled over Margaret of Burgundy's body like a biting insect. The men were frowning and the room itself had become somber as the brilliant day outside dimmed.

“Your Majesty? Your Grace?” Margaret rose, in clear breach of protocol since the king had not indicated that she should. “I should be pleased to withdraw, sire. The palace has many unexpected guests at this time of the year”—Margaret flicked a glance at Edward—“and I can see that Your Majesty and the duke, my husband”—she curtsied formally to Charles—“have much to discuss that cannot concern me or any other member of my sex.”

Charles was momentarily distracted by the intensity of the look that passed between sister and brother as the duchess spoke. However, Margaret was right. Family reunions must play second fiddle today to much weightier concerns.

“Come, Duchess, allow a long-absent brother to escort you.” Bowing to the duke, Edward rose and picked up his sister's hand. As they processed down the hall, their backs to the dais, there was a precious moment in which to speak to each other.

“Is she safe?”

Margaret nodded. “Yes. The bishop was… interrupted last night before he could do anything but terrify her. However, he died. The city is frantic looking for him.”

Margaret's voice was unemotional and Edward resisted glancing at her, but a wave of strangeness prickled his skin. Staring straight ahead, he spoke from the side of his mouth. “Gossip as we arrived said he was missing.”

Margaret smiled, left and right. That took effort. “He is. He was… removed. After he died.”

“Where is the body?”

Margaret laughed merrily and patted her brother's hand, as if
he had said something witty. “We will speak of this later. Meanwhile, tell me the truth. Is Anne the old king's natural daughter?”

They had reached the door and it was opened soundlessly by the door-wards. Edward slewed a glance at his sister, profoundly disconcerted. There was no time to ask how she knew, so he nodded. “Yes. Tell Anne I love her. She has my protection—she is not to doubt that.”

Margaret swept down into a curtsy as the king bowed. “And mine, brother. And mine.”

“Where is the monk who accused her? I want to question him myself.”

Margaret rose and smiled brilliantly at the king. “And so do I, as does Charles. He will be brought to the Prinsenhof later in the day. Then we shall see.”

The duchess was engulfed by her suite of ladies. Many a discreet glance was cast toward the distractingly handsome king, her brother, as the party of women left the anteroom of the Presence chamber, but, for once in his life, Edward was completely oblivious of female admiration.

“Brother? I am so truly sorry to disturb you…” The sharp rap on the door jamb was followed by a creak as the cell door opened.

Agonistes could hear fear in the abbot's wavering voice and decided to ignore it. Prayer would take him away from the earthly concerns of this corrupted world and all its servants. He bent his head lower, clasped his joined hands tighter, and raised his voice.

“Holy Lady Mary, stainless and uncorrupted Mother of our Savior, look down on your sinful servant this day. Help me, I beseech you—”

“Brother!” A hand descended on his shoulder. The hand was heavy and the shoulder frail. When had he last eaten? Agonistes slumped beneath that mortal weight. He was tired, so very tired. He ceased to pray. Slowly, he opened his eyes, though it took some time to focus on the anxious face looming over his.

“I would not disturb you but there are matters we must discuss. Urgent matters.” The abbot could not help himself; his breathing was shallow and his tone at least an octave higher than it might normally be.

Agonistes understood. Years as a courtier had taught him much, even if he avoided remembering. He, in the grip of doing the Lord's work, had slandered a good friend of the duchess and she, the former Lady Margaret of England, was powerful. The monk
smiled. “Brother, why fear for the future of the mortal body when the eternal soul is all that matters?”

Was it that lipless smile or the fatalistic tone that ramped the abbot's nervous state to panic? He breathed deeply through his nose, a curious whistling sound. He hoped he sounded firm. “However, dearest Brother, I must speak plainly. You are our guest, our cherished brother in the sight of the Lord.” The abbot swallowed; this was a little flowery, even for him. “And I must care for your mortal state, even if you do not.”

Agonistes heaved himself up from his knees and stood, swaying, beside the narrow plank cot. His interest in playing this game was nonexistent. “By which you mean, Brother Abbot, you fear for the mortal future of your house if I remain beneath its roof?”

The abbot was offended and, yes, resentful. Their lady duchess had always been a most generous patron—witness the new painted window paid for by Margaret and dedicated to Saint George, the premier saint of England—but he very much hoped the close relationship between his order and the court of Burgundy was of lesser importance than his duty. “Brother, I have prayed most ardently through this last night and God has brought me his precious guidance on this… matter. He has told me that I must think of the welfare of all in this house. Souls and bodies, both. But my care begins with you.”

Fine and gilded lies. Agonistes shrugged. “I am ready to return to Paris, Brother, if that is what you are trying to ask of me. Do not distress yourself. We all have our duty.” In truth, the monk would be relieved to leave Brugge, especially as during his earlier prayers he'd heard the tumult surrounding the triumphant entry of Edward Plantagenet into the city. Agonistes closed his eyes and ears at even the memory of that sound. And his heart. He would not willingly allow that adulterer, the cause of so much suffering in his life, into his mind in any form.

Surreptitiously the abbot wiped the sweat from his upper lip. It was now a little before tierce, the third canonical hour of the day, and, if he moved fast, he could have this “dear brother in Christ” out of the priory by the time the bell tolled for prayers. “Since you have chosen your path, Brother, I support your decision. Here.
These are for your journey to Paris, to help you on your way.” Like a magician, the abbot presented the monk with a saddlebag. “Food, coin money—not much, of course. Ours is a poor house.” He coughed. It had not been easy to decide how much to give—too much, and Agonistes might see the money as a bribe and, being mad, refuse to leave. Only a madman would have said what he did at the feast yesterday. “And there is a donkey also. Come with me, Brother, you must meet him, your new friend and faithful companion-to-be. He is a charming animal. And sturdy also.”

Relief made the abbot chatter, giddy as a society lady, as he swept the monk from his cell, yet Brother Agonistes strove not to judge the man's venality. Perhaps, after all, it was on behalf of his brothers that the abbot cast his own “very dear brother, through our Savior” onto the pitiless road. The monk also knew that if he declined to leave, if he remained in Brugge, he would be forced to explain his accusations to the duchess. Agonistes yearned for peace, but his head ached and his vision clouded when he tried to understand what God truly wanted from him now. Surely, his usefulness to his brother, the king of France, would cease if Duchess Margaret recognized in him the wizened remains of the sinful Dr. Moss. That could not be within God's plan, could it? Louis de Valois was a holy spear within the hand of the Lord, but perhaps he, sinner that he was, formed the tip of that spear—however unworthy his metal might be. No, on balance, it felt right to leave this pestilential city, this haunt of vice and sin, behind him. He had accomplished the task he'd been given; the monks here had told him that Anne de Bohun was even now in the hands of the Church's justice. And though he was puzzled by the enthusiastic welcome the ex–king of England had received, at least he was now named and shamed as an adulterer. Yes, he had done his work.

Thus, even though the Feast of Saint Stephen had turned bitter with dark sleet and a cutting wind, Brother Agonistes set out patiently enough just as the midday bell chimed out from the belfry above the cloth hall in the Markt Square. Despite the cold, he was dressed in nothing but his own filthy robes and a patched winter cloak wound tight around his emaciated body. He had refused the last-minute offer of a fur-lined mantle from the abbot. His feet
were blue-white in the same holed sandals he had made for himself, long ago. Because of his manifold sins, he was certain that new boots could not be in God's plan for him, now or ever. Therefore, he would rejoice in the certainty that the journey to Paris would take many weary days and, during that time, be grateful for the opportunity to consider, and reconsider, all his faults and failings. Perhaps his current sufferings could be offered up to God in further expiation of all that he'd done in that other, worldly time at Westminster.

Almost immediately on setting out there was evidence that his surrender to the will of God was pleasing to the Savior: the donkey between his knees seemed suddenly certain of its mission in life. Where before it had ambled through the streets of Brugge, now it trotted busily out from beneath the battlements of the Kruispoort and onto the echoing wooden drawbridge that linked the city gate to the riverbank of the Zwijn, though Agonistes had not given the animal a direction of any kind. Reverently, the monk crossed himself. Surely God was good. He had sent him a donkey that knew the way to Paris.