The Uncrowned Queen (44 page)

“This is my nephew, Edward. And Dame Deborah, my housekeeper. We are getting ourselves settled but I will need help. Help from all of you, I think.”

“Oh yes?” Again, that truculent tone from Meggan but this time she was shooshed by the crowd, bending toward Anne to hear each word she spoke. “And will you pay us, then?”

Long Will frowned at Meggan's truculence. “I'm sorry, lady, but it's been very hard here for two seasons. The harvest failed last year and, well… we've need of coin money in this place.”

Anne nodded as she considered what the man had said. Then she smiled. “This Sunday I should like there to be a mass of thanksgiving for our safe arrival here. Do we have our own priest here in the village?” There was silence until the little girl who'd been the first to see them spoke. She, like the others, had heard “our own priest”—Anne including herself among them in that way made her brave. “Priest died. Last summer.”

“Well, then, perhaps someone can tell me where the nearest priest lives? Perhaps he might consider giving us a blessing at the Hall? And if he does, please come. I should like to know you all because—”

Meggan shouted out angrily, “You own us! That's why. We're just beasts to you and your kind. Ox! Horse! Donkey! That's all we are. All we've ever been.” The rage crumpled into sobs and a woman put her arm around Meggan's bony shoulders, patting and whispering. Meggan's hand went to her mouth, as if to close it up and stop the sobs. A thin hand, a thin face. This was a woman beyond exhaustion. A woman who was starving. Without thought, Anne went to Meggan and grasped her other hand. The skin of the palm and fingers was very rough and dirt was ingrained in every crease.

“Things will change, Dame Meggan. I will see to that. Beginning today.” She meant it. For a moment only she and Meggan existed in the world, so intense was the focus between them.

Holding the older woman's hand in both of her own, Anne turned to her people and spoke from the heart. “There is to be a feast tonight for all the village at Herrard Great Hall. Will you spread the word among your people? Come this evening, before
the light goes from the sky. There will be plenty for all.” Anne looked into Meggan's eyes. “Plenty for all, Meggan. That is my pledge to you.”

Deborah caught Anne's glance and shrugged. There would be food enough, just, with the supplies they'd brought with them from London and what they'd found stored at the hall. And the two of them would cook it.

Deborah crossed herself, blessing providence for the unexpected gift of the cow. Fortuna, and they, would have a very busy time today if all these mouths were to be fed. All very well being lady of this manor; rather than the people of Wincanton the Less helping their lady, it seemed she must help them to survive first. Deborah welcomed the thought, and the task. Less time for Anne to brood on the past. Less time to brood on the king.

Now, if only Anne would avoid asking whom the cow belonged to…

“Can you see him, Edward?”

Edward shaded his eyes against the rising sun with one mailed hand, the light dancing in shards off the polished steel. The morning was dazzling, a hopeful sign after long, dark days. “Not yet. Yes! There!” Edward stood in his stirrups and waved. Richard scowled.

The brothers were on the Banbury road, surrounded by a good number of their men. Today it was particularly important to appear well supported; the rest of the Yorkist army had been left outside the walls of Coventry, behind which Warwick was lodged, refusing to come out. It was barely two weeks since they'd landed and, after a slow and difficult start with the northern barons, thousands of men had joined the brothers as they rode south, and more arrived every day.

“Many with him?”

Edward turned to his younger brother. “A reasonable number. He wants to impress us.”

Richard shrugged and said nothing, his face thunderous.

Edward smiled. “He's our brother, Richard. He's been stupid. He knows that now.”

“Stupid? Stupid!”

“We need him if we're to—”

“To overcome Warwick. I know, I know. That's all very well,
but still…” In the distance, the party of men with their backs to the light reined in their horses.

“This is important, Richard. Be nice.”

“Nice? He betrayed us. Betrayed you. Have you forgotten the last six months, Edward?”

The king turned to his younger brother and spoke softly. “Don't be bitter, Richard. I forget nothing.”

Smiling, Edward Plantagenet settled himself comfortably in his saddle and waited. The king would not be the first to ride forward. This was a moment that would be talked of among both sides in the conflict for many days to come. Signs and signals were important.

A moment's impasse, then one man from the other party rode out from the close knot of his companions. He crossed the space between the two groups until he was less than three horse lengths away. He stopped and pushed up his visor.

“Brother! And Richard! How good it is to see you both. Welcome home.” He waved to show he had nothing in his hands.

Richard nearly choked at the cheery tone. “Edward! You're not going to…”

But the king was, and he did. After handing his sword to the simmering Richard, he nudged his destrier forward until the animal stood shoulder to shoulder with that of his younger brother. “George. You're looking well. Marriage suits you.” Edward smiled and reached out to clasp his brother's arm; and, doing so, pulled the horses even closer together. The brothers were a hand-span apart. Clarence did not blink. It was a game they'd all played as children: who had the nerve to stare the other down.

“And never better, brother, now that you've returned. I've missed you. Both of you.”

Breathtaking! Edward began to laugh, long and loud. He laughed until he choked and Clarence had to slap him hard on the back. That started Edward off again, and Clarence. And the men around them. But not Richard. He was red with fury.

“Richard, come and say hello to your brother.” The king turned and waved Gloucester forward affectionately.

Richard was never very good at hiding his feelings. His rigid back and dropped visor told the tale.

“Richard, come and give your brother the kiss of peace, as we used to do. I command it.” Suddenly there was steel in the king's voice and Richard, sulky, did as he was told. He flipped the steel veil up and leaned forward, planting two hasty kisses on his brother's cheeks, then turned away, seeming as if he wanted to spit. Clarence smiled at Richard, lips quirked over exposed teeth; the smile of a dog, or a wolf. Edward slapped both of his brothers hard on their mailed shoulders.

“Family. United again. The way it should be, eh, George?”

“Yes, it's good to be friends again. Welcome home, Richard, as I have already said to our brother, the king.”

There. It was said. Clarence had acknowledged the changing world order. Edward covered a long, deep sigh with a brilliant smile.

“And so, brother, tell me about Warwick. Will we get him out from behind those walls? Supplies are running very low with my men. Perhaps we're best to strike for London. What do you think?”

“Well, Edward, I have the beginnings of a plan, if you'll bear with me while I give you some background…”

Richard listened, glowering, as Edward spoke cheerfully with Clarence. Looking at them, one would think this discussion had no more importance than the way the French were tying jesses this year.

“Richard?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” His youngest brother leaned heavily on the honorific and Edward's lips twitched with amusement.

“This is an excellent meeting between us all, but I swear my belly's rumbling. What say we have a fire lit, here beside the road, and share a cup of hot wine, as brothers should? For old times' sake.”

And shortly many beheld a sight they had never thought to see again. The three sons of the old Duke of York made camp beside the road like companions who'd never been apart.

“What happened at Honfleur, le Dain?”

“Winds, Your Majesty. Contrary winds. The queen left there well provisioned, with all her ships and her son, the prince of Wales. But a great storm beat them back again and again, and, finally, they returned to port in some disarray. They are there now, waiting for the weather to turn.” Le Dain shifted from foot to foot. The king was silent. That worried him.

“And the child. The monster. How is it?”

“The baby Louisa is very well, Your Majesty,” le Dain lied stoutly. “Thriving, in fact.”

This cheered the king. “Very well. Nothing but a small setback, it seems. Send a dispatch to Queen Margaret and let her know that the child lives and is doing well. It will comfort her to know that the Lord is with us still, as she waits. Spring is ever a changeable season.”

Le Dain bowed as deeply as he was able. He had done all he could to make sure that the only news Louis ever heard about his little protégée, Louisa, came from him and was entirely hopeful. In truth, the little monster was sickening. It was feeding less and crying more and its poor mother was distraught. That affected le Dain unaccountably. He'd become fond of them all; more than fond of the girl. Which was strange. He rarely felt affection for anything but dogs.

He dreaded what would happen to France—and to him—if the child died.

“Le Dain!” The barber jerked out of his anxious thoughts. Gallantly, he knelt. “Your Majesty?”

“What other news? The earl of March, for instance. Have the English turned him out of the kingdom yet?”

Le Dain swallowed. This was going to be difficult.

“Well, Your Majesty, not exactly…”

The news from the north was not good for Margaret of Anjou and her champion, the earl of Warwick.

Desperate, those of Warwick's supporters who remained paraded the old king, Henry VI, through the streets of London to show him to the people. It was supposed to be a mighty display of power and confidence by Warwick's adherents, but they got it wrong, seriously wrong.

George Neville, archbishop of York and brother to Earl Warwick, could feel the city turning against the cause of Lancaster in an almost physical way as he rode through the streets beside Henry. It was there in the sullen, closed faces of the Londoners as they hung out of their windows, watching the court party process along beneath them. None called the old king's name or shouted “God bless King Henry.” Instead, they looked down, almost silent, as the strange old man, who'd been England's king since he was a baby, rode past Saint Paul's and on toward the Chepe beneath the clustered, leaning houses. George Neville rode alongside the king, holding the old man's hand—a touching, loyal gesture, he thought. It was noted well by sharp, unfriendly eyes. Eyes that did not see it as loyalty, but for what it was: the only way to keep Henry reliably in his saddle, so fuddled was his state.

The people gossiped quietly to each other as they watched Henry pass. Their former king was pale as milk and wisps of his white hair flew fine as thistledown in the fresh breeze off the river.
Someone's been keeping him locked up and out of the light, they said. Look at his color—just like a ghost!

But Henry smiled sweetly at his people, even waved to them as a kindly grandfather might, and that counted for something—some small reminder of the old days. But his eyes wandered this way and that, as restless and vacant as a baby's, and he was poorly dressed in a long stained gown of shabby blue velvet, with not even a decent bit of fur to keep his thin neck warm. That too was noted. The Londoners hated a poor display.

George Neville tried not to wince as he looked at Henry. Haste had undone the purpose of this procession and it could not end too soon for him. They should have taken the time to find the old king something better to wear, they should have brought out more jewels from the Chapel of the Pyx to dazzle the crowd. They should have made poor Henry look more like a king. Should have… would have… too late now. Neville could see in their eyes that the Londoners were disappointed and shamed. Henry of Lancaster didn't look like their sovereign lord, no matter how many men rode in front of him shouting out his name and titles and blowing their silver trumpets. “Make way for Henry, by the Grace of God, king of England and France and Ireland and Wales. Lord of…”