The Uncrowned Queen (5 page)

The duchess, who had been supervising the queen's women as they packed, was not the daughter of a great nobleman for nothing. She clapped her hands for silence, and was rewarded. Her, they respected. “Very well. You, you, and you. And you—and you, there, holding the green veil.” Jacquetta pointed around the room at individual women. “You five will accompany the queen and myself.” A bright glance stopped John Ascot, who had been about to protest.
Jacquetta made six. “Hurry now, we must finish packing for the queen and leave immediately for sanctuary in the abbey.”

The train of the duchess's black velvet gown was encrusted with silver embroidery and very heavy; normally at least two ladies were required to hold it up as she walked. Now, she swept the material up in one hand, as if it had been silk sarcenet, and held out the other to the queen.

“Come, my daughter. It is time. Let me help you; lean on my arm.”

The queen exhaled a deep breath; the sigh became a sob between clenched teeth. “I can't. I can't stand.”

“Chamberlain?”

One on each side of her, Elizabeth Wydeville's bulky body was levered out of her Presence chair by her mother and John Ascot. As they helped her walk slowly from the bed chamber, past rows of kneeling, crying women, Elizabeth cast a glance back toward the massively carved chair. Who would sit in it next?

And would she ever see the king, her husband, again?

“Master Conyers, I thank you for the service you have given. But I am embarrassed. We left Lynn so quickly that I have no coin.”

Edward looked at the small band of men clustered around him on the sturdy wharf at Alkmaar. The land still tipped and swung; it made no difference that the earth lay quietly beneath their feet. The king didn't want to beg money from his friends; they'd need every groat, penny, and angel in the next little while.

“Which would you rather have? This?” Edward pulled a ring from his right hand, a heavy gold band set with a beveled jasper in which had been carved his crest, a rayed sun in splendor. “Or this?” The king swung his riding cloak from his shoulders. Cut from expensive broadcloth dyed a rare, lively blue, the garment was lined with winter marten, with the same fur forming a deep band at the hem. It was joined at the throat by a chain of silver gilt studded with emeralds.

Will Conyers hadn't wanted to come on this voyage, but what did a man say to a bunch of lords who stepped onto his boat one blustery autumn morning, slung around with weapons, and demanded, “Take us to the Low Countries”? Nothing, unless he was a fool.

And now here they were and they couldn't pay him; not properly. Yet gold was gold—that seal ring would be worth some sort of price to the Jews—and the king's cloak was a very fine thing also.
Certainly he could sell it, if he chose. And if he didn't, what a fine sight he'd make at home on market day. If Nan, his wife, allowed him to keep it.

He laughed suddenly and Edward, trying not to shiver in the brisk wind from the sea, laughed with him. “Well, master, which is it to be?” The captain of the
Norwich Lass
found himself bowing and was surprised. He'd never felt any real allegiance to this king in faraway London, even though the queen's family had connections in Lynn. Maybe, in the end, that slender thread of affinity counted for something.

“I'll take the cloak, liege. I've a mind to dress like a king when I get home.”

There was a moment's shocked silence and then they found themselves laughing, the whole of Edward's party, at the man's audacity. Laughing, almost sobbing, after the tension, the fear, the fury of the last weeks. It was good to laugh, for now the future must be faced. A future as exiles.

“I count it a fair bargain since you have brought us to this place. Alkmaar, you called it?”

The captain bowed. Then, as the king dumped the cloak into his hands, the man nearly dropped it with sudden knowledge of his own temerity.

“And what do the people of Alkmaar do?”

The king was determined to sound cheerful as he cast his eyes around the little town. It was set among dunes that stretched away north and south.

Master Conyers spoke cautiously as he measured the weight of the cloak. “I believe they make cheese, sire.”

The king glimmered a brief smile. “Ah, well then, that would explain the smell. And I had thought it was rotting fish!”

His men laughed again, giddily. Their ribs ached. Edward, too, guffawed and clapped a few on the shoulders as if he'd made the best joke in the world.

A girl, a servant out early to collect bread for her family, also giggled as she passed the group. They looked so odd: filthy, and yet well dressed at the same time. But their weapons made her nervous.

Her laughter triggered the image of another girl's face for Edward Plantagenet. Anne. It was a sigh that found a name before the king could prevent it. Could she see him now, if he sent his thoughts to her?

“Did you say something, Your Majesty?” William Hastings, lord high chamberlain of England, suppressed a grimace. Already it sounded false, calling Edward a king.

His master, alert to the quickly disguised uncertainty, smiled brightly. “I must be tired, William, when thoughts speak aloud.” Edward inspected his sword and wiped the blade against his surcoat; he could not allow seawater to linger on the steel and damage its edge. “Form them up, William. But first, has anyone a spare cloak? This wind is cutting.”

“A cloak for the king?”

The party of men rummaged among their few remaining possessions. Richard of Gloucester, Edward's youngest brother, hauled out a spare riding cloak. He'd managed to hang on to his saddlebags when they'd boarded the cog in Lynn; the whole party would be grateful for their contents in the days to come.

“Have this, brother. It's sadly creased, of course, but serviceable. Not up to your usual standards, though.”

The brothers shared a look and a laugh. Edward was famous for loving clothes.

“Oh, I don't know, Richard. Green has always suited me, so I'm told.” As Edward swirled the heavy garment around his shoulders, the softness of the cloth, the waxed silk of its lining and, most of all, the deep forest green brought more pictures into his mind—Anne dressed in green. Anne reaching out to him. Anne kissing him. Anne lying with him as he…

“The party is ready, sire.” Ready for the future, said Richard of Gloucester's confident tone. Ready for you to lead us, brother.

Edward smiled just as confidently and turned to face his companions. “Well now, here's a pass.”

Men raised their heads to catch the king's words and those who'd been sitting on the dock scrambled to their feet.

“And I'm very annoyed.”

One or two laughed at the ironic sally.

“Yes, very annoyed. Mortally annoyed.”

The king's tone was savage and his sword hissed out of its scabbard in a flashing wheel of light, startling the seabirds, crying, into the bright air.

“We will take our country back, hand over hand.”

Less than twenty men to regain England? Edward's spell was strong; not one of his companions looked around in doubt.

“We have friends, good friends. And we have been driven here by traitors. Traitors do not prosper. But in the future, you who are here with me today will want for nothing; neither shall your families.”

The king turned back to Will Conyers. “Captain, I thank you for your help and for your courage. And for your fine crew.” Edward raised his voice so the men on the
Norwich Lass
could hear what he said. “You too, all of you, will have cause to be thankful for this voyage. Return home. And spread the news of our imminent return.”

Edward slid the sword back into its sheath and stalked off toward the town, his men falling in behind him, a compact and purposeful group. Will Conyers shrugged as he watched Edward Plantagenet stride away. Lynn, where he came from, was a quiet place and the people of the small, prosperous town were unused to the tide of politics, but it was lapping high now, right to their very doors.

The captain crossed himself and turned back to face the sea. Perhaps he'd let folks know where he'd been, perhaps not, though it would be harder to stop the crew talking. He was troubled. Would the new masters of England let him and his men lie safe in their beds if they heard he'd helped the former king?

He stroked the precious cloak. Perhaps he could sell the knowledge he had? Then he discarded the thought. Dangerous to play both sides. Best lie low.

Will shaded his eyes against the sun rising in the east and turned for one last glimpse of Edward Plantagenet. The king and his party had almost reached the town square, where they were attracting
astonished glances from the townsfolk for their fine clothing and their grim looks.

Where would they go? And who would aid them? Brave words were all very well, but this king would need his friends, and plenty of them. Twenty men couldn't take back a kingdom. Could they?

Duchess Margaret of Burgundy was missing her husband, away on campaign again against the French, always the French. She was doing her very best to appear calm and happy, which was hard. Her flowers had appeared again this morning.

Married for more than two years and still no pregnancy. This month she'd been so hopeful, for she'd been nearly three weeks late, but bloody sheets this morning had withered those hopes. It must be that she was barren. Charles had already proved himself capable of children, with a daughter, Mary, from one of his previous marriages. Swallowing hard to prevent self-pitying tears, the duchess tried to concentrate on what her friend, Lady Anne de Bohun, was saying.

“…he died. There was nothing we could do. But he had a message for me from the king, your brother, Duchess. Have you heard anything more?”

Margaret shook her head and signaled for her ladies to retreat a little so that she and Anne could speak privately.

“All I know is that England is in chaos. We had word from our ambassador in Westminster some weeks back that things were increasingly bad. Warwick is expected to land with his forces at any time.”

Why was it that Edward had never appreciated the extent to which he'd alienated Earl Warwick when he married Elizabeth
Wydeville in secret? Margaret wondered. It had all begun then, and the animosity had only deepened with the descent of the queen's enormous and rapacious family onto the court. Edward had been a fool, led by lust, and now Margaret feared her brother would lose his kingdom for that mortal sin committed all those years ago.

“Ah, Lady Anne, I've felt so powerless at this distance. I had a letter from my brother a month ago, and even then he was quite certain he would engage with the earl and win. Duke Charles is away campaigning, as you know. Perhaps he will have more recent news when he returns.” Margaret shook her head sadly. One of Edward's greatest qualities, and greatest weaknesses, was unfettered optimism: he believed everything would right itself in the end. Some called him unwilling to act because of it, but Margaret and Anne de Bohun both knew the king better. They knew he had faith that he could negotiate his way out of most problems. Often he was right. Now his sister prayed every night, most deeply and faithfully, that he was safe and his luck still held.

Margaret smiled at her guest. “You look weary, Lady Anne. Are you well?”

Anne shook her head. “I have bad dreams so often these nights, Duchess.”

A thread of soft, cool air sighed through the cheerful room and the duchess felt its chill. She took a shaky breath and turned to look out over the gardens of the Prinsenhof, the fanciful, elegant castle in the center of Brugge that housed Charles of Burgundy's court when he or his duchess was in residence. Then glanced at her friend. “Do you see my brother in your… dreams?”

Friendship over several years had brought the duchess knowledge of Anne's unique gifts. It was dangerous knowledge for them both.

Anne nodded and spoke very quietly. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.” She gazed down at her hands clasped gently in her lap, trying not to twist her fingers with fear. The strain shadowed her face.