The Uncrowned Queen (49 page)

“Walter? What are you doing here? Why aren't you downstairs with the king? Hurry, man!”

Half dressed, pulling on hose and trying to tie them off to the points of a half-donned jacket, Mathew Cuttifer was wild-eyed and looking for someone to blame. That was the logic of fear.

Lady Margaret, her kirtle decently laced—somehow—and a plain kerchief covering her night-plaited hair, was vainly trying to persuade her husband to stand still so she could help him dress.

“Mathew! Stop! Stand still. We will get through this. He's here by himself—that tells us much. Now let me help you or the king will see you half naked. Is that what you want?”

Sir Mathew was suddenly rigid. No, that was, most assuredly, just what he did not want. He called to the door-ward again.

“Go on, man. Downstairs, now! Raise the cook—we must give wine to our guest. And food! And tell the king we're coming.”

Walter shivered. Speak, uninvited, to the monarch who'd only so recently slaughtered his way to London? There was a comforting thought!

“Go. What are you waiting for? Go!”

Walter saw the look in his master's eye. He didn't know the king, but he did know Sir Mathew. In the end, he knew whom he'd rather face. He bowed quickly and hurried away.

“Stop! Torches! Light torches!”

Gulping with the pressure of the extra task, Walter bowed again and scurried from the bed chamber to the receiving hall in the span of two breaths. Was it a dream, was he flying? How could he have got down those stairs so fast?

But, there, suddenly, he was, bobbing bows in front of the king again, hopeful that this fearsome giant would not take it into his head to split him as he had countless others, including the old king, the one who'd been in the Tower. They said he'd died from sheer displeasure only yesterday. Walter didn't believe that. Not one bit.

In the door-ward's absence Edward Plantagenet had, with his own hands, fed the banked embers in the great hall fireplace so that a bright glow now flickered across the vast space. “My master and Lady Margaret are—”

“Here, Walter. Go now and do as Sir Mathew asked. Hot wine is needed, and refreshment for our sovereign.” Lady Margaret, her hand lightly on her husband's arm, had a clear voice that carried, and the tone on this occasion was quite clear.

Pull yourself together, Walter. Think about one thing at a time. Go!
Giddily relieved to relinquish the task of entertaining the king to those who were more used to it, Walter cantered to the kitchen, casting one startled glance at the feet of his mistress as he went. No, he wasn't hallucinating. They were naked. And she didn't know it. Should he tell her? No! Raise the cook, get the wine heated…

“A good man, but I suspect Your Majesty made him nervous.” Sir Mathew Cuttifer, mercer, had been an intimate at the courts of two kings in his lifetime, and this king, the man now standing so unexpectedly in his own hall, had knighted him personally. They had known each other for a long, long time but Anne de Bohun had caused a falling out between them that had never been completely mended. And now, only today, Sir Mathew had denied to one of the king's messengers that he knew where she was. Would he, could he, lie to the king if Edward asked the question himself?

Edward smiled at his wary host and his lady. He did not believe, for one moment, that Mathew Cuttifer was ignorant of Anne's whereabouts, however he honored that faithfulness to a friend—he'd needed more of the same in the past, and not had enough. These people were important to the woman he loved and it was time to reknit old bonds between them; if only for Anne's sake.

“I must thank you for your many kindnesses in the past, Sir Mathew; and you, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret hardly dared to breathe. It had come, then, at last. Reconciliation. This was a good omen.

“And I came here tonight since I might not have another opportunity for some time…” Edward coughed, using the moment
to think of the right words, “…as all our lives have changed so suddenly, and there is so much to do.”

During this little speech, Sir Mathew had guided the king to a noble cathedra standing to one side of the fireplace. There was another, a matching chair, but he would not sit unless instructed to. Meanwhile, Lady Margaret, to her horror, had realized why her feet were so cold. “Yes, so many tasks to bring the country back to a reasonable state. I mean to do that as speedily as possible. And I will need trade to flourish if we are to accomplish all that must be done.”

Sir Mathew nodded. The king smiled at him encouragingly. An opinion was clearly called for. Sir Mathew cleared his throat, constricted by fear. “Your Majesty is entirely right. Now that you have returned to your throne”—he bowed deeply; Edward nodded graciously—“to the great comfort and delight of all your people, it is needful that we all work together, commons, lords, all of us, to bring this country back to rights. The house of Cuttifer will play its part, Lord King. In whatever way, on whatever terms, that you shall instruct!” Mathew finished with a flourish, his voice a noble clarion in the great empty room.

Lady Margaret smiled discreetly at her husband.
That was well done, my dear. Now, if the wine would just be brought, we might avoid talking about…

“Lady Margaret, will you not sit?” The king gestured to the other cathedra and, with great grace, because there was no other choice, Margaret curtsied with a serene expression on her face and sat. The king did not allow Margaret to see that he had glimpsed her naked feet when assisting her to her place. But her husband had observed those slender toes and the mad desire to laugh nearly choked him. What was going on? Surely the king hadn't visited them to talk about trade reform in the middle of the night?

“You may wonder, Sir Mathew, and you, Lady Margaret, why I have chosen to visit you tonight.”

Somehow the knight and his lady preserved expressions of polite indifference, as if that question had been the last thing they'd thought of.

“I believe you told Lord Hastings that you have no current knowledge of Lady Anne de Bohun?”

For one mad moment Mathew thought of lying, but that was where it had all begun before with the king; lying about Anne had nearly destroyed his English trade and his family. What to say now? His wife saved him.

“Lady Anne left this house in February, Your Majesty. Earlier today, when the messenger came, we were concerned to say as little as possible since that is our ward's wish. Her one desire now is to live a life of quiet retirement.”

The king smiled. “Ah, Lady Margaret, you are a good friend to the Lady Anne, and therefore you are my friend also. I wish to invite Lady Anne and her nephew to the court that the queen and I shall shortly hold. Perhaps you can assist me? Lady Anne must know of this invitation, and that it is my intention that her exile be revoked. Formally. She has been my friend through countless trials and it is our wish to reward her for her faithful service to our person.” He smiled radiantly. Lady Margaret smiled also but her face had lost all feeling, though the mask of courtesy remained in place. She dared not glance toward her husband, though she heard him gasp and then cough to cover the sound.

“An invitation to court? How kind Your Majesty is. And the exile. Most generous.” The blood hummed in Margaret's ears, so loud she could hardly hear the words that came out of her mouth. Some part of her brain was engaged, at least, and intent on saving the house of Cuttifer from disaster once more. How could they possibly persuade Anne to obey the king in this? And what would be the consequences if she refused his invitation?

Sir Mathew, knowing his wife so well, picked up the thread. “But of course, sire, we would be most pleased to find a way for your, um, invitation to be conveyed to the Lady Anne.” Invitation, in this context, was the polite disguise that summons wore.

The king bowed in acknowledgment and the Cuttifers held their breath. Would he ask them where Anne actually was? But Edward did not press the point; above all now, he wanted to build Anne's trust in him. He believed the Cuttifers; they would pass on his message, he was certain of it.

This was a night of shocks and surprises for, as the king nodded
pleasantly to acknowledge the service they would render, he extracted a small roll of parchment from inside his jerkin. It was sealed with his own personal badge, the sun rayed in splendor. He held it out to Sir Mathew, who went down upon one knee to receive it, as he had when the king had knighted him.

“I thank you, sir knight. And you, lady. Please see that Lady Anne de Bohun receives this as soon as you can arrange for it to be delivered.” His business over, the king rose and wrapped himself once more in his cloak. At that moment Walter returned, leading a stream of wide-eyed servants from the kitchen. Between them they carried enough food and wine—gently steaming in great jugs—to refresh twenty or thirty hungry men. The party made a creditable sight. Somehow each was properly and cleanly dressed in the Cuttifer livery, and the food smelled delicious.

The king smiled charmingly at his hostess and had the grace to look embarrassed. “Alas, I fear I have detained you all from your beds for far too long. However, since this well-ordered house has been put to so much trouble”—the king strode over to the servants—“this is for your pain.” Quickly, he dipped long fingers into the pocket at his belt and extracted a gold coin for each man and woman who'd come to wait upon him. The gesture caused a little confusion as, one by one, each of the servers attempted to receive the gift while juggling substantial platters laden with delicate viands piled high and hot. But it was soon done and Sir Mathew waved the food and the servants back to the kitchen. They'd all enjoy an early and unexpectedly splendid break-fast today.

The king smiled as he turned back to the merchant and his wife. “You have been most generous, Sir Mathew, and you, Lady Margaret. I am grateful for your help and for your great loyalty to Lady Anne. She and I will not forget. Now, it is more than time for sleep. For all of us.” In the light from the fire, deep exhaustion was written on the king's face. He'd come tonight to accomplish something that was very important to him, and it had cost him great effort to ask for this favor.

Lady Margaret felt real pity for this man. He'd returned as a victor to London, that was certain, but he'd done it sailing in on a
moontide of blood. And he would never, ever rest easy again as long as he lived. “Sire, may we arrange an escort for you back to the palace?”

Edward Plantagenet shook his head. “This is my city and my home. It holds no fears for me, lady.” One final smile to Margaret Cuttifer and the king was gone.

There was a moment's stricken silence after Walter had bolted, locked, and barred the house once more. Husband and wife looked at each other searchingly. “Well, wife, what do we do now?”

Now all had changed, changed again. Because of the letter. His letter; the parchment placed in her hands today by Mathew Cuttifer's messenger.

How the world had tipped and spun as she'd fingered the wax seal with its familiar device. But she had not opened it. Perhaps she would not ever open it.

Anne stood still, made herself as dense and strong as a stone pillar; as unassailable. She composed herself, half grateful that the contest had arrived. The contest between the past and the future.

She was in her favorite place in all the world—the castellated walk of her house from which she could see the valley below and, if she looked hard enough on a clear day, the sea in the deep and changing distance. Soon it would be suppertime and her son must be fed. Anne walked toward the door that opened onto the stairs leading down to the other floors of the Hall. But then the wind stirred and lifted her unbound hair until it streamed out around her head, around her shoulders. And she heard the voice.

Anne. Anne
.

The Sword Mother stood between her and the door. In the evening light her mole-dark cloak made her part of the shadows in this windy place. Anne's eyes locked with those of the cloaked woman and the wind died away. Utterly.

And then the cloaked figure moved, one graceful step, and the way to the stairs was clear.

There was only a moment and a low whistle, such as a bird might make, and then the shadows swallowed the woman whole and she was gone as if she had never been.

Anne blinked as if sun-blinded. But there was no sun. Night had eaten up the day.

Anne's bed was in a room on the third level of the Hall. It was not quite a solar, it was too large for that and had doors opening from three of its four walls. Yet it made a tolerable bed chamber with a high view of the countryside. The two women sat huddled behind the red curtains, talking quietly as the rest of the household slept. Lying on the counterpane was the king's letter.

Edward, by the grace of God, king of England, France, Wales, and Ireland… commands that the Lady Anne de Bohun attend the king's court at Westminster…