The Uncrowned Queen (38 page)

“And you made Aseef take the body away. How did he avoid being seen?”

Margaret shook her head. That night—only a day since—was a blurred nightmare. “It was very late and the palace was asleep. We stripped the body, Anne and I.” She shuddered as she remembered the filthy, lice-ridden undergarments; the fat-larded body; the weight of him, and the stench of flesh unwashed for years and years, as they moved the corpse to undress it, then clothe it again. “I dressed him in some of your clothes. They were all I could find quickly. Old ones, I promise you”—she added the detail defensively—“but they were too small. We had to rip them up the back. We wrapped him up in a cloak. Then Aseef carried him out, over his shoulder, as if he were too drunk to stand.”

“Where did you put the body? Aseef has not told me. But then, I haven't asked him.”

The duchess shrugged guiltily. “I remembered the crypt beneath the great chapel.”

The duke nodded. “A judicious choice. Who would think to disturb the sleep of my ancestors looking for a missing bishop?”

The duchess was close to tears. “I didn't know which tomb to choose. It was very dark, but one had a damaged lid and we put him inside that. It made a terrible noise when we moved the top aside. The loudest sound I've ever heard in my life and the worst—I can hear it now.”

The duke picked up Margaret's free hand. “What happened then?” In the semi-dark of the bed chamber it was impossible to read the expression in the duke's eyes. The duchess shrugged unhappily. She was ashamed and frightened.

“It was necessary to make the guard think he'd seen the bishop leave. My body maid, Estella—”

“Ah yes. It seems her loyalty to you is very great. She entertained the guard?”

The duchess nodded. No point lying now. “Yes. He's very young, Charles, and gullible. And I don't want him punished. She kept him as long as she could. In the end, Aseef returned to Anne only a moment before the guard himself came back.” She swallowed. “Anne dressed Aseef in Odo's clothes. He put the cowl up and… walked out of there.”

The duke guffawed until tears streaked his face. “But… he's… black. He's a blackamoor! Ah, this is too much.” That set him laughing again.

The duchess was defensive. “Well, it was very dark in the passage so the guard couldn't see properly. Estella had taken the torch.”

“Estella took the torch, did she? Of course.” The duke sighed happily. “You really don't understand the concept of obedience, do you? I must see what I can do about that, wife.”

Margaret truly relaxed for the first time in this long day. She leaned against her husband's broad chest. “Well, you shouldn't
have married a Plantagenet, should you, if you'd wanted obedience?”

He laughed again and kissed her, held her close. They stood together, watching the flames.

“What did you mean, Charles, that I saved you two difficult decisions?”

Charles was caressing Margaret's naked waist.

“I had to let Odo see Anne. We couldn't have an accused witch in the city without the Church having its say on the matter. But I couldn't work out what to do next. How to get him away from her. How to get her out of the city. You solved that for me. But now…”

The fire was raging, sending out real heat. Margaret looked up into her husband's eyes. “Yes, Charles?”

The duke dropped the fur coverlet from his shoulders and stood naked in front of her. “Now, I want to forget all about Anne de Bohun, the bishop, and how we're going to deal with all of this. Until tomorrow.” In one swift moment, he pulled the blanket from around his wife's shoulders and she was in his arms, nothing between his skin and hers. “And you're going to help me do that. It's your first lesson in obedience.”

“And shall I need many, many more if I'm to subdue my rebellious nature, husband?”

“You shall indeed. And I shall enjoy teaching you your proper place. Beneath me, here and now…”

The farm was in darkness. The man stood at the kitchen door and knocked gently. “Mistress?”

A shutter scraped open above the man's head. He stepped back and looked up. There was just enough light to see her face.

“Leif?” The terror of a strange voice in the night ebbed, to be replaced by guilt. This was normal, however; she was dreaming again. Anne saw Leif's face often in dreams, and she would wake soon. Wake into the nightmare her life had become.

Below her, the big man smiled. “Yes, lady. No need to be afraid. Will you let me in?”

Anne shook her head to clear it and, as if for the first time, felt the cold iron of the latch on her window, saw her breath as it floated in the still night. This was no dream. She was awake. Leif was real. “Yes. Of course. Stay there!”

Leif gazed up at the woman whose face had haunted him all these long months in the north. Faint light glimmered. It caught the lines of her face, the curve of one shoulder as she leaned forward to throw the shutter back—being careful to crouch a little behind the window's sill so that he would not see she was naked. Her hair was unbound, like a child's.

Leif swallowed hard. Anne was alive. And seemingly unhurt. The tiny hammer at his throat was warm as he touched it in silent thanks to the God of War for this unexpected kindness.

“Yes, lady. I'll wait.” He spoke softly. He would always wait for her.

Anne nodded and ducked back inside the room, pulling the shutter closed as gently as she could so as not to wake Deborah or little Edward. She padded back to her bed, shivering. Groping along the wall in the dark, she found her kirtle, an undershift, and her shawl. They would have to do. Her feet were cold, but bare feet would be silent in the sleeping house and that was good.

A moment later, Anne slid the three stout bolts on the kitchen door from their keepers and lifted the latch.

“Lady Anne.” Leif bowed to her and ducked beneath the lintel. She didn't catch the expression on his face, but her voice quavered when she replied.

“You are welcome in my house, Leif. So welcome. I'll make a light so we can see each other.”

Leif watched Anne as she tried to apply flint to the wick of a pottery oil lamp. After three attempts he took it from her and coaxed a small bright star from the wick. “Sit, lady. On the settle. I'll restart the fire. It's cold in here.”

Anne nodded and sat while Leif took the great poker to the ashes of the fire, stirring them vigorously and blowing hard until he found live coals buried deep. He fed the small flames with twigs and a little straw. Warmth bloomed and rosy light transformed the kitchen, winking on copper pans and gilding the edges of the pewter chargers on the cupboard. It was a cozy, homely place—beautiful in its simple usefulness.

Anne saw nothing of this, however, as shame, joy, and confusion pulled at her like a trinity of wolves. She had no right to this kindness and she would not take advantage of what he felt for her. How could she do that when the substantial shadow of Edward Plantagenet was still such a huge part of her life?

Leif turned and smiled at her. “Room on the settle for me?”

Anne found words for simple things. “Yes, yes, of course. It's late, and I'm sure you're hungry. Are you hungry, Leif?” She could hear herself prattling; she sounded like a loon! Action was a remedy for such foolishness.

She jumped up as he sat down and hurried over to the three-legged
pot sitting in the fireplace. It was half full of good winter stock simmered from bones and scraps of meat and the last of the stored root vegetables. This soup was one of the staples of Anne's kitchen, and each evening barley was added, along with wild garlic, and then the ashes banked high so the broth would cook overnight, ready for break-fast in the morning.

Anne lifted the iron lid and dipped in a ladle, then poured the thick, savory liquid into a wooden bowl. She carried the soup to Leif, realizing again, with something of a shock, how very big he was. The work of hauling ropes and straining at the tiller of his cog had given Leif a broad chest and massive arms and shoulders; even seated, he dwarfed Anne's standing height. And she could smell him: healthy, warm, male, musk and spice. He was the captain of a trading vessel, and when he moved there came the scent of cloves and quills of cinnamon—the ghosts of previous cargoes. His scent sharpened her sense of loss.

“I have bread, also. Yesterday's, but still good.”

“Bread would be excellent. If it's Deborah's?”

They both smiled. Try as she might, Anne had no skill at kneading bread and her loaves were always heavier than her foster mother's.

“Yes, she made the bread. Don't worry, I've not had my hands anywhere near it.” A round loaf and a little pot of rendered goose fat were quickly found.

Anne hesitated, then sat down beside her guest; watched, without speaking, as Leif tore a thick piece off the loaf and dipped it in the goose fat. That task accomplished, he spooned soup into his mouth, glancing quickly at Anne. She was tired and the circles beneath her eyes spoke of trouble. Or fear. He didn't like to see that.

“This is very good.” Leif smiled at Anne. She nodded, but would not look at him as she fed more wood, unnecessarily, into the flames.

Leif ate steadily for a little longer, then, sighing, put the bowl down and turned to her. “I don't blame you, lady. You had to go with the king. They told me you had no choice.”

Anne ducked her head in a vain attempt to hide sudden tears. When she tried to speak it was in a choking whisper.

“I'm sorry, Leif. So sorry. I deserted you.”

He shook his head, a smile glimmering. “No. You didn't. He did, though.” Between outrage and astonishment, Anne couldn't speak, but Leif laughed. Actually laughed. “When I got over it, I understood. It's what I would have done. If I'd been him.”

At that moment, little Edward ran into the kitchen in his nightgown shouting “Leif!” and hurled himself at the big man like a cannonball. The sailor shoved his bowl away and gathered the child into his arms and up against his massive chest.

“Well now, Boy, I thought you'd have forgotten me.” Boy was Leif's nickname for Anne's son.

Edward wriggled his way up the giant's torso until his arms were locked around the seaman's neck. The child shook his head solemnly. “No. Not ever or ever. I love you. Good to have you home, Leif.” He patted the big man's face and they both laughed.

Deborah entered the kitchen in time to hear the last of this little speech and saw the wistful expression on Anne's face as she gazed at the man and the child. She clapped her hands quite sharply. The trio looked up, three startled faces.

“What are you doing out of bed, young man?”

“I heard them talking, Deborah. Don't be angry.”

“I'm not angry, but you really should be in your bed, child.”

Edward started to protest vigorously, then changed his tack. “Read me a story, Leif? Then I'll go back to bed.” Such shining innocence; such emotional cunning!

Leif laughed, and so did Anne. “I'd like that, Boy, except I can't read. I can tell you one, though.”

Anne interrupted. “Let Edward stay here, Deborah. You too. Isn't it nice that Leif's back and we're all together again?”

The old woman smiled at her foster daughter but said nothing. In truth, it was good that this kind and dependable man had returned, but perhaps it would make things more complicated for Anne. Was that a good thing?

Anne kissed her son. “Come, Edward, you can sit here next to Leif for just a moment. Would you like some soup?” Anne put a small bowl of soup in front of her son as Deborah searched for something in the shadows of the kitchen.

“What's lost, Deborah?”

“The warming pan. I just want to heat the child's bed before he goes back up. It's very cold. Ah… here it is.” Deborah shoveled hot ash into the hinged metal pan, talking over her shoulder as she worked. “You be quick, Edward, because you'll need a big sleep. Long day for all of us tomorrow.”

The sailor cut off a lump of bread for the little boy and showed him how to dip it neatly in the liquid and convey it to his mouth without dripping.

“Well done. Now, another bite…”

The child yawned hugely, exposing the half-chewed food in his mouth. His mother did her best to sound severe. “Edward, I've told you before. Hand over your mouth.”

The little boy giggled and exhibited the contents of his mouth again with a big grin. That set them all off and soon the three adults were laughing so hard, tears streaked their faces. Then Edward yawned again, his eyes fluttering as he rubbed them with his fists.

“Come, sweet babe,” said Deborah. “Enough of this. We'll warm the sheets together. Then Wissy will come.”

“Leif too?”

“Yes, I'll come. Now, tuck up warm, Boy.”

The big man leaned down and placed the small boy carefully on his feet again, kissing him warmly. A visitor at that moment would have thought them a family—mother, father, child, and grandmother. Anne caught Leif's eye and seemed about to say something, but then turned to her son. “Don't I get a kiss?”