The Uncrowned Queen (4 page)

“One of the old gods. My people worship him still, though the church thinks otherwise.” For a moment Leif grinned, though it was a mere flash of white teeth and did not reach his eyes. “This man is Thor's servant.”

Surprise replaced fear. To worship other gods than the Christian one, to be a pagan in these times, was not only remarkable, it was very dangerous. Anne and Deborah lived with that knowledge each waking day of their lives.

“But he is English. He's wearing York colors.” The seaman shrugged as he inspected the filthy tunic, murrey-red quartered with blue. “Lady, it is the truth. English or not, this man belongs to Thor. He would not wear the hammer, otherwise.”

Anne looked more closely at the medal. It was crudely made, but yes, it was a hammer, not a cross, though the shapes, quickly seen, were similar. The fire sparked and belched smoke; she coughed and turned her head away. And, in that moment, something glittered beneath Leif's half-opened shirt.

“You have this sign as well?”

Leif smiled at her amazement. “It was how I was raised. I am his servant also.”

The man in Anne's arms stirred and spoke, though his eyes were closed. It was as if a corpse had spoken. “As are we all his servants when war comes. But, lady, you must help the king.”

“How? How can I help the king?” Anne pleaded. “What does he want from me?”

“Truth, from those who deal in lies.”

One breath more and the man was still.

“No! No, come back to me. What do you mean? Come back!”

Leif bent and lifted the messenger out of Anne's arms. Big as the soldier was, Leif looked like a man carrying his sleeping son.

“No use, lady. He spoke from the fields of death. Now he has gone farther and we cannot call him back.”

Anne clasped her hands together to stop them shaking. “How can I answer this riddle?”

Leif turned back to her, the soldier in his arms. She could not see his face because he was silhouetted in the open doorway.

“We all seek truth, lady. I will help you find it.” Then he was gone.

Anne's knees shook when she tried to stand. What now? What should she do?

And how could she help the king of England?

It was close, too close, and it happened in sight of land. The freezing wind locked Edward Plantagenet's jaw so tight it was difficult to speak, but he tried to look defiant for his men—the way a king should look going into battle. Of course he didn't know if he was, technically, a king at the current moment. Were you a monarch still if you fled your kingdom?

During the last mad days it had seemed the right thing to do. At the end of a week of crazy riding, little food, and less sleep, he and his youngest brother, Richard of Gloucester, had commandeered a cog, the
Norwich Lass
, in Kings Lynn. They'd fought their way across the country to the coast and the sea beckoned as a way of escape. What choice did they have with Warwick at their backs?

And here and now, right or wrong, they were about to fight again: on sea this time, not land. And none of them could swim. Was this the last, fatal mistake after a campaign filled with mistakes? The one that would kill them all?

The
Norwich Lass
was sturdy, but a cog is no seabird and she was wallowing now, trying hard to put about as the mighty Hanseatic carrack bore down upon them, having won the tacking duel in sight of the Dutch coast. How could he have forgotten that the ships of the Hanseatic League patrolled this northern sea so vigorously, seeing off English and French ships alike—or taking them as prizes? What was done was done. Gutted from their days-long flight—running from Warwick and his other, turncoat brother,
George of Clarence—Edward Plantagenet summoned a last reserve of energy as he flexed stiffened shoulders, bracing his back and thighs for what would come. Then he found the words he needed and the means to say them. “Richard, form them up! Archers, here, before me—fire only on command. Hastings and Rivers, the rear, if you please. Gentlemen, swords. And now… Captain, we are ready.” His voice was loud and clear and the hand that held his father's sword against the sky did not shake. A miracle.

Will Conyers, captain of the
Norwich Lass
, was exasperated. It was all very well for the king to say he and his tiny band of followers were ready to fight the appallingly obvious might of the Hanseatic League, but that wouldn't help much when the vessels came together. This contest was idiotically unequal. They were doomed.

The king, however, was apparently indifferent to their impending fate, as were his men. Obediently they shuffled themselves into a compact group on the slimy deck—a party of twenty or so, including no more than ten archers. None of them found it easy to catch the rhythm of the bucking ship but they drew their swords anyway and nocked their arrows, the archers praying the strings had not been slackened by the flying sea.

Will shook his head and turned away from their folly. He could only muster a hasty “My thanks, sire” before roaring for his men to haul on the yards harder, harder, and abusing the tillerman: “Bring her round, round, you nun's bastard. I said bring her
round!
” Made furious by terrified ineptitude, Will grasped the tiller himself and began to haul with all his considerable strength.

Slowly, so laboriously, the
Norwich Lass
finally answered, began to turn as she caught the wind. Sail suddenly taut, she leapt as if alive and bit down into the running sea, more nimble than Will Conyers had ever seen her. Perhaps she knew what faced them all and was trying to escape in her own way. But the captain had no time for gratitude. “Guns! They've opened the ports!” came the cry.

Indeed they had. The
Danneborg
, immediately to starboard and four times the cog's size, had bronze bombards poking out in a line along her mighty flank.

“Down, all.
Down!
” Will roared.

Edward ignored the captain. “Archers?” The men stood straighter, trying to brace themselves against the lurching deck. “On my mark, high and fast and…
loose!
”

A good archer fires fifteen arrows in the space of one minute, and these were good. The last of Edward's own Welsh guard, they'd made the mad dash from Nottingham across Lincolnshire beside him, in company with his most loyal friends and supporters: his brother, Richard of Gloucester; William, Lord Hastings, high chamberlain of England; and his brother-in-law, Lord Rivers. Now here they were, facing death once more, even so close to the coast of the Low Countries and safety. The English arrows hit the deckmen of the Hanseatic carrack with a sighing, lethal whine, proving what Edward already knew: his archers themselves were the true weapons, not their bows. At one with the yew as it bent and sang, they fired as regularly, as rhythmically, as the workings of one of his mechanical clocks. And they did enough damage for their opponents to falter, for some of the cannon crew to misfire. And then, when the helmsman was hit on the castellated deck and the captain winged where he stood bellowing orders, the carrack lurched and lost the wind.

It was enough, just enough, and not a moment too soon, for the archers had loosed nearly all their arrows.

Will Conyers crossed himself, astonished, and for a moment thought of his wife waiting at home back in Lynn. She'd be none too pleased by this adventure. Even as he bellowed at the crew to trim the sail again and swung the tiller hard to port, he made himself a promise. He'd sell the
Lass
, go in with Nan's dad on the alehouse. He'd had enough of the sea. Yes, there was a message in this mad adventure with Edward Plantagenet. Be damned if he'd lose his ship or his life for a man who'd gambled his throne in this gathering disaster of his own making!

All the while, as Will hauled the
Lass
about and more surely into the wind, he talked to her as if she were a horse or a woman. She was a tricky thing and might be offended by his traitorous thoughts. “Come up, my girl, that's the way. Now bite down, bite down harder and… take the wind!”

And as she did, the men on board cheered and stomped, hoarse
with relief as the little cog left the carrack wallowing in her modest wake, their shouts drowned in the slap of the sea, the howl of rushing air in the belly of the sail. There, less than a league away, was the little Dutch port of Alkmaar, and never was a sight more welcome. Edward cheered with the rest of them and felt the fear leach away as his heartbeat slowed. Their luck would turn now, please God. Charles of Burgundy, his brother-in-law, held the Low Countries as part of his dukedom. Soon they would be among friends and have time to think their way through the puzzle that England had become now that Edward had fled the country. He would need money, men, and arms to restore his patrimony, restore his throne.

And for all of these, he needed help. Someone to intercede with Charles on his behalf, to make his case for assistance. A messenger had been dispatched from York more than ten nights since. Had he found her? Dear Lady in Heaven, had the man found Anne de Bohun?

“I will not go. No! Not until I know where the king is and if he is safe.”

The scene in the queen's rooms at Westminster Palace was chaotic. Elizabeth Wydeville's chamber women and her lady companions stumbled over each other, cursing, as they shoved clothes, veils, linen, and jewels into coffers and boxes, terror making fingers clumsy and tempers short. The queen herself sat immovable on her chair of state, her straight back rigid with defiance.

“But, Your Majesty, we have word that the army is outside the wall. The Londoners and the city will not hold them for long. Earl Warwick and—” The queen's personal chamberlain, John Ascot, gulped and, swallowing air, choked into a fit of coughing. It was the stress of this terrible day—and the fact that he must tell the queen the truth.

“Clarence? Go on, man, say his name. My husband's brother, that traitor, Clarence, is with him, isn't he? Isn't he?”

John Ascot was pale with the effort of persuading his pregnant mistress to leave the palace. For her sake, and his, one of them had to stay calm, though it was hard.

“Your Majesty, I understand that the duke does accompany the earl. This may be a good thing—”

“A good thing, Master Chamberlain? A good thing!”

The chamberlain winced at the queen's tone but forced himself
to meet her frigid glance. He bowed as deeply as he could and spoke the shocking truth; there was no time for niceties now.

“The duke is popular with the London commons, Your Majesty. That may buy us a little time. But you must come with me immediately. For the sake and safety of the prince still to be born. And his father.”

Elizabeth Wydeville closed her eyes so the chamberlain would not see the sudden tears. Unconsciously, her hands clenched around her greatly swollen belly. The child kicked vigorously beneath her fingers. “There is no other place?”

She spoke so low, John Ascot had to lean forward to hear her words. His mistress was a difficult woman, little loved by those who served her, but unexpectedly he was touched by more than duty. There was despair in that whisper.

He shook his head. “I dearly wish I could offer you another refuge, but you and the prince to come will be safe there. The holy abbot, Dr. Milling, has offered his own personal quarters to Your Majesty and”—he looked around at the women in the chamber, all of whom were now listening breathlessly—“some of your women.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes at that and skewered him with her glance. “How many?”

“Five, Your Majesty.”

There was an instant of stricken silence, then a low agitated tide of noise rose higher, and higher.

“Five? That is impossible!” The queen was implacable.

John Ascot turned to face the queen's women. “It must be so. There is no room for more.” He caught the eye of the queen's mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, with a pleading glance. Help me!