The Uncrowned Queen (43 page)

“Amen.” William Hastings raised his brows at the mention of Anne de Bohun, but crossed himself with complete conviction. God was with them now, he was certain of it.

Standing in the bell loft
of the chapel, the highest vantage point the convent possessed, Mother Elinor strained her eyes looking into the distance. She could just make out the two kneeling figures and saw the flash as the sword was held up.

“Sister Bertha?”

“Yes, Mother?” The smaller sister sacrist was halfway up the ladder, holding on to the abbess's ankles to steady her.

“They're not heathens! Blessed Mary, we thank you for this at least. Yet they have a fleet at their back. This is certainly invasion! We must keep the bell tolling, Sister.”

The two nuns swapped places on the ladder with difficulty and Sister Bertha took up her stance beside the bell once more. The first mighty clang filled both their heads with so much noise that it hurt. Bertha knew she'd be dizzy and deaf for days to come but offered up her suffering to God with a glad heart. For you, and for my sisters, Lord, I perform this task. For you and for my sisters…

Mother Elinor, too, understood her duty. She hurried out into
the muddy yard surrounding the chapel. Her nuns were milling around helplessly as if they had, in truth, become sheep and she the shepherd. “Sisters, sisters, into the chapel now. And on your knees before God in His mercy.”

Hastings frowned as he brushed
river sand from his knees. The sound of the distant bell came and went on the wind; whomever was ringing the peal was determined to give good service. “Well, if there are souls to hear in this deserted place, they've certainly been warned of our arrival now. Should we silence the bell, lord?”

Edward shook his head. “Let the word of our return spread. It has to start somewhere. But I will not have my men sack even one barn, one byre, and certainly no churches. We return in peace. For the moment.” The king slid his sword back into its scabbard, the cold shiver of steel against steel contradicting his pious hope. He shaded his eyes, looking into the distance. “The north first. And then London. We have much to do.”

Edward opened his arms to the wind from the sea. Energy flushed through his body like potent wine. Striding back to the water's edge, he waved his hat back and forth in welcome as ship after ship ran the bar and the rip at the river's mouth to enter the calmer waters of the estuary. His brother's ship was the first to anchor and he could see Richard in the sterncastle, surrounded by a compact knot of men. One of them was waving his own hat in a wide arc, determined to attract the king's attention. Edward's lips quirked. Julian de Plassy! The man was indestructible. How ironic that a French outlaw and his band of enthusiastic cutthroats would play a part taking the English throne back from a French queen. In the distance, the bell ceased. A moment later, women's voices came to them faintly; they were singing the Miserere. Edward listened attentively. The women behind those high walls would be terrified by his arrival and that of the ships behind him.

“Hastings, I want that convent left alone. If any man attempts an outrage against that place, you will hang him immediately, so that all can see. Let that word go out to the men as they land. We
come with God's support, and all his servants are safe in this country, under my rule.” They were a long way from London, but they would begin here, today. He'd left with twenty men at his back. He was returning with two thousand, and half of those were Flemings—plus a handful of French desperadoes.

But they would be enough. They would certainly be enough.

“We have a cow.”

Anne sat up in her great bed, one of the few pieces of furniture she'd retained from her farm, which, for the moment, she shared with Edward and Deborah. She rubbed her eyes briskly, banishing the rags of dreams. “How wonderful! Where did it come from?”

Deborah wiped her hands on a sacking apron and sat down. She'd been up since before dawn and her face was flushed from cold air and hard work.

“Wandering in the old orchard. I heard her calling. Very distressed; udders this big, poor thing.” Deborah held her hands wide, shaking her head. “But I've milked her now. And do you want the good news?”

Anne laughed happily. “Yes, please!”

“She's yielded buckets and buckets. It's all settling in the creamery. We'll have enough to make butter!”

Anne closed her eyes dreamily. Butter! How long since she'd tasted real, homemade butter? But then she frowned. “I don't understand. She should have been dried off long ago, shouldn't she? And where did she come from?”

Deborah got up briskly. “I, for one, am not questioning God's bounty. She's certainly not wild—she followed me when I called, very eager to be milked. And, best of all, I suspect our fine new friend is pregnant; either that or she has the greatest case of bloat
I've ever seen. I think her calf will be born very soon, to our good fortune. And that's what I've called her: Fortuna. She is an omen. We are meant to stay here.”

Anne threw the covers back and jumped down, shivering as she searched for her working clothes. “I do not doubt that, dear Mother. But there is so much to do. We must send the men back to Sir Mathew very soon, I think. They've done well in helping us set this place to rights, but we must have our own assistance now. It's time to visit our village.”

Deborah helped her daughter lace the back of her kirtle. Normally Anne was fastidious about washing in the morning, but that would come later today.

“I'll just see how the food's going in the kitchen. I'm famished and I should think the men are also.”

Anne slipped stockinged feet into willow-wood clogs. “I'm grateful that Fortuna has arrived in our lives, but perhaps we can ask for information in the village? Someone must own her.”

Wincanton the Less was a
very small place. A hamlet rather than a village, and even that description flattered reality.

But it's my hamlet
. The thought came to Anne unbidden as she and Deborah walked, unannounced, down the one broad street toward the common land, the focus around which most of the neglected little houses were clustered. Edward was running ahead, a stick in his hand, which he whirled and threw and ran after, shouting. At least he was carefree.

Anne was not. She'd been expecting more: this looked a grindingly poor place and it was now her responsibility. She owned this collection of buildings and, for all she knew, perhaps the people as well.

“Wissy, Wissy, look! Ducks. Come here!” Edward had reached the common land and the pond that lay near one end of it. He was lying on the bank, trying to coax a duckling to come closer to his outstretched hand.

“Be careful, child!” Deborah hurried ahead as she saw Edward wriggle ever closer to the water. She reached him at the last moment;
a large handful of his shirt just prevented Anne's son meeting the duckling at very close quarters indeed.

“You scared him away!” Edward was indignant. “Not fair!”

“Hush now, child. We don't want folk here thinking Lady Anne has a rude boy for a nephew.”

“Not rude. Just. Not.
Happy!
”

The decoration of pond weed on his face was a keenly felt assault to Edward's dignity, but his mutinous expression was so charming that Anne couldn't help herself. She laughed out loud. Deborah tried not to join in, but laughter spread faster than any disease and soon even Edward was giggling, pond weed and injured dignity no match for fun.

It was good to laugh after all the tension of the last days, the last months. Anne closed her eyes for a moment. She'd fled Brugge and now run far from London with Mathew Cuttifer's help, and here she was in this world-deserted spot. Would it be far enough? Could she build a life here?

Anne sensed another presence and opened her eyes. In front of her was a girl. She was tiny and dressed in a much-patched short kirtle, so old and faded it had lost all color and was now a mealy earth-brown. Bare feet, white with cold, an apron made from sacking, and stick-thin legs told the story of this place.

“Who are you, child?” Anne asked, but was met with silence. “Well, if you will not tell me your name, you shall know mine. Anne. My name is Anne de Bohun.”

The child's mouth fell open from shock and she whirled away, running and yelling, “Mam, Mam, she's here! Mam!
Mam!
” The child had reached the nearest cottage and was heaving open the door as Anne stood up.

“They know about us?”

Deborah joined her, dusting down her dress. “It's a little place and we've been here for days.”

The two women glanced at each other and Anne reached down to help Edward to his feet. “Let's make you respectable, Edward. Have to look tidy to meet our neighbors.” Automatically she brushed Edward's shirt free of grass seeds and twigs and hauled up his britches, retying a couple of the points that had come loose. She
felt oddly calm, no trace of the nervousness that had sat on her chest this morning when she woke. Anxiety. She was always anxious before a big change in her life. Old men with arthritis ached with a coming storm. She ached with a sense of the future. She'd learned to trust that, though often it frightened her. But she felt no fear now. That was a comfort.

As she smoothed her own skirts, out of the corner of her eye Anne could see a small crowd of people gathering in front of the cottage the child had run to. She turned to face them and smiled confidently.

“Shall we go to them?” Deborah's voice was a murmur.

Anne shook her head and held more tightly onto the hand of her now silent son. “Let them come to us.”

In her heart, Anne de Bohun understood the importance of these first few moments. This was her village, these were her people. Without forcing an appearance of authority, it was her task to give them faith in her. That meant playing a role, the role of chatelaine. It was why she had dressed so carefully this morning in her third-best dress: light wool dyed a dense, expensive blue. Sober, discreet. The clothes of a lady, despite the fact she'd walked into the village, not ridden.

For a moment it seemed there was an uncertain stand-off and it took all of Anne's nerve to stand there, waiting patiently, before, in a straggle, the small group—women and children and two old men—at last ventured closer. She was reminded of half-tame birds who took some time to hop to the outstretched hand once it was offered.

“Mistress?” One of the old men had made his way to the front of the group and pulled a greasy leather cap off his head as he spoke.

Anne bowed her head graciously, smiling. “I am Anne de Bohun. And yes, I am living at Herrard Great Hall now. I am happy to be home.”

A sigh passed through the little group. Up the back, a child cried; the whimper of a very young baby. Anne smiled more broadly. “May I see the little one?”

Heads turned toward the girl who stood at the back of the
small crowd. She blushed and half turned her body away so that Anne would be spared the sight of the baby now attached to her breast and tugging fretfully at the nipple.

“Show her, go on.”

“Yes, let her see. Let the lady see the boy.”

A movement, a turning of each of the bodies, and the girl was propelled forward until she stood within Anne's touching distance. Anne was moved by the fear on her face as, tremulously, the girl held out her tiny child for inspection. Somehow, Anne kept smiling, holding sudden tears in check at the sight of the starving baby.

“He's a handsome boy, your son.”

Huge eyes inspected Anne from that wizened little face. It was true. He might grow to be a good-looking man, if he survived. His young mother blushed and bobbed her head down to her baby, embarrassed but pleased. She was barely as tall as Anne's shoulder and so thin the line of her ribs could be seen beneath her ragged dress. Her tiny stature spoke of long, hard times.

“Will you be here long, mistress?”

This time, the voice came from the middle of the group. Anne located the speaker—a thin woman with few teeth and a hard face. The tone was insolent, almost sneering.

Anne responded calmly, “I don't know your name, dame.”

“Meggan is my name. But names, yours and mine, don't answer my question.”

The crowd drew breath audibly and shuffled. The old man looked embarrassed.

“Now, Meggan, it's no business of yours what the lady does.”

Anne smiled. “I am happy to answer, Master…?” Offering the honorific, she nodded encouragingly and he responded.

“Will. Used to be Long Will once.” He drew himself up as he said it and Anne could see he'd been a tall man but was now shrunken. Bad seasons and old age had robbed him of much, including his teeth.

“Master Will, and you, Dame Meggan, all of you, please let your families know that I have returned to my mother's house. She never lived here but I think of it as her home. It is our home now.” Anne put her arm around Edward and nodded toward Deborah.