The Uncrowned Queen (48 page)

It was a hot and glorious day in early June and the bells of the great church were ringing, ringing for her, ringing for her much-delayed churching after the birth of her child, the most noble, the most high Prince Edward. The king's precious son.

The queen felt herself smile, widely, blissfully, as she turned the words over inside her mouth and tasted their sweet strength. The king's son. Delicious; they were the most delicious words she'd ever heard. Words with the power to transform her life. The mother of the king's most undoubtedly legitimate son, the first lady in the kingdom, smiled like a living saint. And those who did not know her were awed. Beauty incarnate walked before them. Their queen.

As was fitting, after living in sanctuary in the most straitened way, Elizabeth Wydeville was now brilliantly dressed. Hers was the stiffest, the heaviest gown in the abbey today. Cloth of gold made up her dress, along with purple velvet and white silk; winter miniver lined her enormously long train, carried by the daughters of four dukes and six earls. The queen gloried in the handsome
weight of her clothing, welcomed the heat the layers of fabric brought to her body, welcomed, too, the burden of her crown. Never before had her graceful neck carried that grave mass more gladly, not even at her coronation, years ago. The rich gems, the gold of its construction, flashed and glimmered as she bowed, left and right, acknowledging friends, ignoring enemies.

She shone and she knew it. Brighter than candle flame and more glorious than the icons of the saints adorning the high altar beyond the rood screen, she drew and magnified light in a way that challenged even the tomb of Saint Edward, confessor and king. She was only an earthly woman and yet, when she passed the entrance of the Lady Chapel, she bowed as one monarch to another. Today, she was the equal of that other reigning deity, Mary, empress of Heaven, and those who were in the abbey knew it well.

And here they all were, her witnesses, for the church itself was full, stuffed full, with all the barons, the lords, the earls, the dukes in England and their wives and daughters. Dressed as richly as idols, slung around with ropes of pearls, ropes of jewels, they waited, row behind shimmering row, for Elizabeth Wydeville to pass; hopeful that she would nod, would acknowledge them, as she paced her measured way out of the abbey and toward the rest of her glorious, beckoning destiny.

But the queen had not forgotten, even if Edward pretended to. She had not forgotten the treachery of so many of them standing here today. There was Clarence—traitor, jealous brother, ally of Warwick and that other woman who had dared call herself queen, Margaret of Anjou—and yet he presumed to smile at Elizabeth Wydeville so radiantly, to bow so deeply, that none might suspect the rage in his heart. But she knew his malice, and her fury matched his when she saw him. As she drew level to where the duke now knelt, very deliberately she turned her head away, almost turned her back on him, ostentatiously directing her tender glance toward Richard of Gloucester, kneeling beside George of Clarence.
There, that is what I really think of you, George
, the gesture said.
You are dust beneath my shoes
.

The insult hit home and instantly the veil of joy—so well counterfeited for this occasion—was ripped from the face of Edward's
younger brother and something uglier was seen for just one moment. But then the smile returned to George of Clarence's face. Fixed, but certainly a smile. Beside his elder brother, Richard of Gloucester dropped his head piously, hoping none had seen his own sardonic twitch of amusement. He'd never liked Edward's wife, but he was proud of her today. They felt alike about his brother George.

Whispers flew from mouth to mouth and rippled away to the altar, to the doors, to the galleries above as the queen processed down the nave of the abbey. Without even turning, Elizabeth Wydeville could see the courtiers muttering to one another as she walked on, head humbly bent. She did not care. Let Edward chastise her later for her treatment of Clarence; she would not allow this moment of triumph to be taken from her.

She had borne Edward Plantagenet a son. There would be others. She was fertile. She was the queen and she had reclaimed her kingdom.

Processing toward the banqueting hall
at Westminster Palace for the churching feast, bowing right and left to the throngs of his newly reassembled court, the king nodded and smiled graciously as he carried on a very private conversation.

“Where is she, Hastings?”

Justly reinstated after his master's comprehensive victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury, the lord high chamberlain of England suppressed an irritated sigh. Today of all days, with Edward and Elizabeth worshipped like deities at the very center of this triumph, and the king was still, only and always, thinking of the troublesome Anne de Bohun.

“Sire, I do not know. There's been no time to—”

The king said sharply, “Now is that time, William. Sir Mathew Cuttifer—he'll know where she is, I'm certain of it. I want you to send a message to him. I will formally revoke Anne's exile tomorrow, he's to tell her that. Then, when order has been properly restored in London, I want her to join the court. Sir Mathew is to reassure the Lady Anne that I remain her loving friend.”

For a moment Hastings had a flash of the queen's radiant face in the abbey and it took all his self-control to present an untroubled expression as he nodded pleasantly to his master. Over Elizabeth Wydeville's dead body would Anne de Bohun ever come to court.

“But if Sir Mathew does not know where Lady Anne is, sire…?”

Edward frowned. “Then we shall cast our net more widely. After the feast, we'll talk about what's best.”

“Your Majesty, does the queen know of your intentions?”

Only a long and close friendship with Edward Plantagenet could allow William Hastings such liberty. Sometimes the king preferred to ignore the emotionally difficult things in life, but it was the restored chamberlain's duty to be plain.

“No. And I do not intend to tell her.”

Sweat sprang from William at the thought; for a moment he felt dizzy. “Sire, forgive me, but… you will permit the queen to hear of this invitation without telling her yourself?”

Edward shrugged. He gazed into the middle distance and wiped the sweat from his own eyes, waving cheerfully at no one in particular. His cloak of scarlet velvet was very heavy on such a hot day and the stiff collar of the black damask jerkin chafed his neck. He'd forgotten the tedium and inconvenience of correct appearance.

“Sire, I would not ordinarily speak—”

“Then do not!” Suddenly Edward was truculent, his face dangerously flushed, whether from heat or anger it was hard to tell. June warmth did not sit well with velvet and both heated the blood.

William gazed at his master. Very well, he would say nothing more. Today.

“I can see what you're thinking, William. You might as well be lecturing me still!” The king was laughing now and that was fortunate. There'd been too little laughter in all their lives in the last long months. Defeated, Hastings smiled and sighed. “Well, lord, if we're to call up this storm, perhaps we should enjoy the calm before it.”

The king was suddenly sunny as the day. “Much better, William. Why would I seek to annoy the queen with my intentions
today of all days? Let us all be peaceful and happy. As my father told me, the science is all in picking the ground. And not engaging in the fight, unless you are sure you can win. I have not yet selected where my ground should be in this matter. I will tell you when I know. Then, perhaps, I will speak with the queen. But only perhaps.”

Hastings shrugged. “I capitulate, sire. It is your business when, or if, you choose to tell the queen of Lady de Bohun's visit to your court. I shall say not one word more on the subject except…”

Edward was harder, tougher, since his exile. Hastings's playmate was long gone, lost in the fields of the Low Countries, and there was menace in his face as he glanced at his chamberlain. William gulped but struggled on; it was his job.

“…to ask where will the Lady Anne be lodged? Westminster is very full, and will be for some time as the numbers at court swell.”

The king waved to the crowds again. There was a jewel on the third finger of his left hand—a square-cut ruby so rich in color it was almost black until he held it up into the light. Then it glowed, bright as heart's blood.

“You are right, William. As usual. Lodging must be thought of. But there is time to solve this problem, for it may still take some days to convey my invitation to the Lady Anne. Once we have found her.” He touched the ruby to his lips. “I believe we should make a bower. A very special bower that she will not want to leave. Ever.”

They were close to Westminster Hall now and the king increased his pace, striding out ahead of his friend, waving exuberantly to the pressing crowd of besotted Londoners. He flung his last words over his shoulder. “See to it, will you, my friend? After all we've been through, this will be such a little task…” Edward's sardonic laughter floated back to his exasperated chamberlain.

A bower? Where and how would he conjure such a thing into being? The chamberlain sighed. There would be a way, of course there would be a way, but he would not think about it until after the churching feast was finished. Right now, he was going to get good and drunk. Then he would think about his duty.

Blessing House was locked tight for the night and all the lights had been extinguished when the unexpected visitor knocked at the door. It was a huge door and a sharp knock, and because the sound echoed around the receiving hall, it was not long before the sleepy door-ward lifted the cover on the spyhole and spoke.

“What is your business? It's long past curfew. This house is asleep.”

“Open the door.”

Alone in the street outside, the tall cloaked man pushed back his hood. The door-ward's fingers were suddenly thumbs; he rushed to obey the muttered order but it took minutes, not seconds, to unlatch, unbolt, and unbar. The sounds were explosions in the darkened building. The door-ward could not speak from fear, instead he made a gobbling sound as he stumbled the door open, hanging on as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Close it, man. Quietly.” The tone was patient; the stranger was used to the effect he had at close quarters. But in what light there was in the receiving hall—not much, just flickers from the banked embers in the fireplace—Edward Plantagenet was an impressive sight, something he didn't always fully grasp. The door-ward was a short man: strong, well muscled, but undeniably short. To the dazzled servant the king seemed to soar up and away over
his head like a dark angel come to visit. Night, and shock, did strange things to a person's sight.

“Your master?” The king understood, finally, what the man was trying to say. “You will get your master?”

The door-ward nodded and finally found the words. “Yes, sire, I will fetch my master.” He managed a shambling bow as he ran toward the stairs that led to the upper part of the house. Only later did he recall he'd turned his back on his king. He didn't sleep for days afterward when the shame of that hit home.

“What?” Mathew Cuttifer was exasperated. Someone was shaking him, making him return from a deep dream and a place where he was free from pain. No more sore knees, no more aching hands and… “What do you
want!
”

He awoke, truly furious. Lady Margaret, his wife, his dear wife, was shocked. Sir Mathew was a temperate man, not given to sulks or displays of temper.

“Mathew, we must wake. And dress.”

Mathew's fury was doused by befuddlement. “Dress? Why dress? It's dark.”

But his wife was already nimbly hopping out of their bed, naked as a babe, and skipping over to the pegs on the wall where her day kirtle hung. He must have misheard her reply. Surely he had?

“The king? Did you say the king?”

Some deep instinct got Mathew's legs going before his brain, and suddenly he, too, was out of the bed, also naked, and absurd without his clothes. Thin legs, a hard little paunch, and soft arms—bookman's arms, not tanner's arms, as his family inheritance had been.

“Yes, Mathew. The king is downstairs, asking to see you. Walter has just informed me. We must think, carefully and quickly, of what we shall say to him.”

Mathew's heart leaped like a lamb in his chest. The messenger from the palace—they'd sent him away with lies earlier today.

Walter, the door-ward, was dithering from foot to foot outside the door. His heart, too, was racing but for different reasons. In just one night, he'd opened the door to the king, and then run into his
master's chamber unannounced and unasked and awakened him. Where would this all end? Right now, he just wanted to be told what to do. He couldn't see himself going downstairs to chat blithely with the king all by himself. No, best to wait here, wait for his master.