The Uncrowned Queen (37 page)

Richard shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. “You're planning…
hic
… something,
hic
, aren't you?
Hic
. Tell me.
Hic
. Sorry. Edward?”

The king ignored his brother as he stripped down to his undershirt and britches. Gone was the magnificent and heavily embroidered blue velvet jerkin with the trailing sleeves lined and cuffed in ermine, tossed onto the bed as if it were a thing without value. Gone, too, was the massive gold chain of interlinked “S”s that had lain around his shoulders; it landed on the fur-edged counterpane. The massive diadem that marked him as a king followed the collar in short order, slung through the air in a nicely judged arc that pitched it onto the pillow where his head would later lie. “Margaret tells me that Anne is locked up and guarded, but otherwise well.” Edward grimaced as he said it; “well” was an inadequate term, under the circumstances.

Hurrying, he pulled a close-woven riding tunic over his head. Cut from a double layer of finest English broadcloth and dyed a deep forest green, it had been in his saddlebags when he'd ridden into Brugge this morning. It had survived much, having taken him warmly enough across half of England and Europe in these last long weeks. It would be his companion in further adventures, he was sure of that.

Richard caught something of Edward's urgency. He shrugged out of the constricting jerkin at last and, shivering, looked around the vast room for the things they'd brought from Anne's farm. “But Lady de Bohun is not being blamed for the bishop's ‘disappearance,' is she?”

Edward flung him a look as he pulled on long, supple riding boots. “No. Not as yet. Margaret has managed it well. She's even
fooled Charles.” The king frowned. Had she? More than once during the feast tonight, as talk turned to the missing Bishop Odo, Edward had caught Charles of Burgundy gazing at his wife with a certain detached calculation. Never forget the politics of pragmatism. The king shivered at the thought. His sister had the nerve of a seasoned gambler—and he hoped he did also—but each of them was just a piece on the chessboard of politics. Charles was very good at chess.

“What will happen to Anne, brother?”

Edward said nothing as he hauled on his boots until they molded to his calves. He had no certain answer.

“She cannot stay in Brugge,” the duke continued. “Things need to become a little calmer before she'll be safe behind these walls again.”

A little calmer? A masterly understatement. During the preceding day, as Edward, Duke Charles, Richard, Louis de Gruuthuse, and Hastings had gone over the intelligence regarding the placement of French troops, the current situation with Warwick and Clarence in England, and the amounts of men, money, and material Edward needed to retake his realm, even they could not entirely escape the rising babble of conjecture that the bishop's continuing absence had caused at court.

“Did you hear that the monk has fled?” Edward bared his teeth in a very unpleasant smile. “He can't be completely mad, after all.”

Richard twitched a grin at his brother, but remained troubled. “Do you think they'll find where Margaret has… I mean, say they find the body, do you believe that a corpse bleeds in the presence of its murderer? Do you think that's possible, brother?”

Edward was searching for his sword, but he swung around and laughed. “Richard, I'm constantly surprised at you, I really am. Margaret didn't murder the bishop and neither did Anne. Our sister has been very clear on that. The man had a fit and died. That happens sometimes to the gross in body, as well you know. By the way…” Richard, like his brother, was now dressed for riding. “Yes?”

“Your hiccups have gone.”

Anne awoke swollen-eyed, aching, and
cold. The reeking tallow candle she'd been left with had long since flickered out and the floor of the stone room was cold and hard as lake ice.

She sat up, shivering. Frigid air burned her throat and her lungs as she breathed. The shock of it was bracing and she found she was angry. Furious, in fact. Rage propelled Anne to her feet and she ran to the door, kicking it and hitting it with all her force.

“You! Open the door. Now!” She would not allow herself to think, her mind focused on making something, anything, happen.

There was a click as a key entered the lock; the latch was moving.

Anne gasped and stepped back.

“I thank you. My friend, the duchess, will be most pleased.” She heard the quaver in her voice and tried to suppress it, tried to sound proud and confident, but then it was too much—her eyes filled with tears, blurring the small stone world that had become her compass.

“And my sister will be most grateful you are safe. As, indeed, am I. Very glad.”

Edward.

In two strides he had her scooped up hard against his body and she felt, as he did, each of their hearts beating against their prison of bone. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I could not come before this. Hush, hush now.” Anne's sobs came from deep within her chest. Edward held her, soothed her, rocked her. She clung to him like a vine. “There, oh, there…” He was kissing the tears as they ran down her face, kissing the side of her mouth, her mouth itself as she tried to speak.

“I was so afraid. And I had such dreams, Edward. Such dreams of fire and death and…”

Her terror was so palpable that the king felt it pass from her body to his like a physical thing. “But I'm here now. We're together.”

Anne was suddenly stricken. Was this a dream too? She looked down at their joined hands, felt the warmth in his fingers. Looking up into his eyes, she smiled with relief. “Yes. We are together.” And then she took his face between her hands and kissed him softly.

He tightened his arms around her but she shook her head. “I
must go home, Edward. As soon as I can.” But she allowed him to hold her, encompassed, just a little longer. It comforted them both to stand like this, no thoughts, no words. They were each made stronger in that dreamlike warmth.

Then Anne stepped back, breaking the circle of Edward's arms, and looked up into the face of the man she loved so dearly. “I need a horse—and an escort.”

Edward nodded. “They're waiting for you. Margaret has arranged it. I will take you to your home and my dear brother-inlaw will be none the wiser.” His hand touched her face and one finger traced the outline of cheek and mouth and chin, resting on the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat.

“But you cannot stay at your farm, my darling. You must pack lightly and be ready to leave. Margaret will see that the place is looked after.”

Anne frowned. “And if that is not my choice?”

Patiently, Edward took one of Anne's hands and led her toward the door. He peered out into the passage beyond—it was empty, apart from Richard. The duke smiled at Anne. She smiled back, distracted, as the king said, “I need to know you are safe. I can arrange that. And then, once I am in London and all is secured, we can be together. Properly.”

The beating of Anne's blood was like a drum, a distant fluttering drum.

“No.”

Edward Plantagenet turned back to the woman he loved so very much and his eyes were bleak. “Anne, please do not be foolish in this. You are subject to my will as your sovereign. I command this. Our son must be safe, and if you will not—”

He had gone too far. Anne was a proud being and the feelings between them were very tangled. “Command? Command is not a word for lovers. It is a word for followers. And slaves.”

The temperature of the room dropped and the candle that Edward now held flickered in his hand, as if in a violent wind. The light steadied, but the king found a very different woman staring at him. Anne was taller, suddenly, and the flame of the candle found an answer in her eyes.

“In this last night, when I thought I'd been abandoned, I came to understand many things. I go willingly with you, Edward, or I do not go at all. You do not have the means to force me. I am not a serf to be picked up, used, and put away when it suits your whim.”

The king was astonished. And then angry. Did Anne not understand just how much he had to deal with, how desperately he needed a clear mind if he was to accomplish what must be done? She and the boy must be made safe, then he could focus, fight, and come back for her later. “Anne, this is foolish. Please do as I say?”

He had not intended to plead with her, but, astonishingly, his voice broke. And the marble statue in front of him turned back into the woman he loved.

“Once I am home again, I shall consider what is best. No!” She held up her hand to stop him as he reached for her—she would change her mind if he held her; they both knew that. “This is my choice now, Edward. Not yours. And I will ride home alone with the escort tonight.”

She had dismissed him, declined his help, and would say nothing more. Anguished, furious, and silent, Edward Plantagenet bundled Anne de Bohun into one of the duchess's riding cloaks and hurried the girl through the palace and down to the duke's stables. Richard loped beside them as they ran. There was a palfrey waiting in the yard, a small spirited mare, and four men dressed in Burgundian livery. The moment had come. And still Anne said nothing.

Standing with her at the shoulder of the horse, Edward spoke first. “Anne, can't you not see—”

“Shush.” Anne placed a finger on Edward Plantagenet's mouth. She was staring up at him and they were close, so close. But she shook her head.

Edward was proud also. He would not beg again. The former king of England placed his hands around Anne de Bohun's waist and swung her up into the saddle. With his own fingers he tied the riding cloak at her throat and insisted she wear the red riding gloves lined with catskin so thoughtfully provided by his sister for her friend.

Because others were watching, they did not kiss, but the last look between them was a long one.

Then Anne turned the little horse's head toward the stable gates and tightened the reins. The mare was a well-fed animal, impatient to be off, and, being given the signal by its rider, sprang forward so that the men accompanying Anne had to scramble to form up behind her as she led them out of the Prinsenhof.

Edward's last sight of Anne as she disappeared into the deep surrounding night was the wave of one scarlet hand, then the great gates groaned closed and the portcullis came down. Dread seized him. How long would it be before they met again?

“I can hear you thinking, Margaret.”

The duchess held her breath; she thought she'd successfully pretended sleep. She sighed and turned over to face her husband. The lighted candle beside the bed was a small star in the vast dark room.

“I cannot sleep, Charles.”

The duke smiled faintly. “Conscience, perhaps?”

For a moment Margaret couldn't find words and her heart filled her mouth.

“Conscience? No. Too much of the last marchpane subtlety. You know how greedy I am for sweet things. Perhaps it's a sign I'm breeding?”

The duke sat up against the bolster and looked at his wife. “You're shameless, Margaret. I know she's gone. And I also know what you did with Bishop Odo.”

There was a moment's charged silence before the duchess forced her tongue to move, forced herself to find words. “But… Aseef cannot talk or—”

The duke nodded and his amused expression became severe. “Or hear. You are correct, my dear. But Aseef was my servant before you were ever my wife. True, he has no speech and he is deaf, but he can write quite well; I had him taught. It is one of the reasons his loyalty to me is so strong. I gave him the means to communicate. Ah, you didn't know that?”

Margaret closed her eyes. “What will you do, Charles?”

The duke got out of bed, pulling a fur coverlet around his naked body, and hurried over to the chimney breast, cursing under his breath at the cold. The fire was nearly out. Energetically, he set about rebuilding a blaze.

“Charles? Don't play with me.” The duchess sat up, fear sharpening her voice.

“Do? I shall do nothing, wife. You have done what I could not be seen to do. And saved me a very difficult decision, on two counts.”

The relief was astonishing. It washed through Margaret's body as if her blood had been replaced by sherbet. Tingling, shivering, she joined her husband by the fire, wrapped in a heavy blanket hauled from the gigantic bed. The blanket trailed behind her over the rushes on the floor, whispering, as if it had a secret to tell.

“Two counts?”

“Yes.” The duke smiled at his wife. “Come closer to the fire. Warm yourself.”

Margaret held up her palms to the flames; her hands glowed from the flickering light behind them. Her husband measured his fingers against hers: both their hands shone blood scarlet now.

“Aseef told me that Odo died from a fit. Is that true?”

Margaret nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper.