The Uncrowned Queen (51 page)

Like the girl as he did, admire her courage as he'd always done, William Hastings knew that Anne de Bohun had been dangerous to Edward's stability for the last six years, and never more so than now. Perhaps, in the end, she really was a witch, a malign force let loose in the king's life?

William resisted the urge to cross himself. What was he thinking? Witches were creatures of fantasy. Peasant superstition. Action was required, like fresh wind through a stuffy hall. “Your Majesty, what would you like me to do?”

Edward turned and stared at William, his face tormented. “Go to her yourself. Now. Bring her to London. Just… do what is required. And I want you to tell Her Majesty the queen of my wishes in this matter. Later, you may give me her response to this command.”

William Hastings bowed low so that the king would not see what he felt. Never, in all the time they'd been together, in all the battles they'd fought back to back, had he smelled the rank breath of potential ruin so clearly, so potently. He dreaded talking to the queen.

“And William?”

The chamberlain paused in backing from the little room. “Your Majesty?”

“Do not frighten Lady Anne. Make her understand…”

“Understand what, liege?”

“Why she is necessary to me. And that I love her.”

The door closed softly behind the chamberlain of England and the door-ward dropped the latch into place as if it were bedded in velvet. He'd heard the last part of the exchange. They were all in for it now, when the queen found out about the king's doxy.

“When?” One word, but it contained much meaning. And a world of frozen menace.

Hastings, who had called upon the queen to give the message he'd been instructed to, stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders.

“His Gracious Majesty has instructed me to tell you that Lady Anne de Bohun must be called to court since she has returned to this country without his permission. And, as she has broken the terms of her exile, proper enquiries must be made of her for the preservation and maintenance of good order in the kingdom.” He was mildly pleased by the sonorous nature of the speech he'd delivered—and its economy with the truth. That pleasure did not last long as the queen put down her embroidery and gazed up at her husband's best friend.

“I had thought she was dead, Hastings. Burned as an accused witch in Brugge not long after the king left that city.”

William cleared his throat nervously. “The Lady Anne de Bohun was the subject of some rumor at that time, but it seems to have been just that, Your Majesty. Rumor.”

The queen's glance had the prick of a needle. “Well then, witch or not, if this woman is illegally in this kingdom, I presume an armed guard will fetch her from wherever she currently hides and escort her to the place that awaits her in the Tower. So to perish, as must all traitors to my husband's cause.”

Lord Hastings tried to match the queen glance for glance. And failed. He bowed and spoke earnestly to Elizabeth Wydeville's embroidered velvet slippers. “Arrangements are being made, Your Majesty. The king, your most noble husband, felt you would prefer to know of all that passes in his name.”

With glacial dignity, the queen crossed herself. “You may thank the king, my lord, for this, his care of us, the very least of his subjects. He has chosen to enlighten his queen that a new threat exists to the restored stability in this kingdom and for that I am most grateful. You may tell my husband such. Now I must see to our son, his precious, legitimate heir.” Though William Hastings did not like Elizabeth Wydeville, her calm was impressive. She, too, had grown steel inside her spine during these last tumultuous months.

Bowing more deeply still, he stood to one side as the queen rose and, clasping her hands at waist height, stepped down from the dais on which her Presence chair was placed. As she left the room, her steps were so tiny she seemed to glide over the floor of the great day solar, robes whispering on the inlaid, brilliant tiles as her ladies trailed out behind her, talking quietly.

William Hastings had a moment to gather himself in the sweating quiet of the queen's absence. The king was waiting to hear how Elizabeth Wydeville had received the news and he, the king's highest officer, should not delay. Yet he stayed for one moment, fingers restlessly tapping the stone window ledge as he gazed down on the river moving east and south toward the sea.

Anne de Bohun curdles the king's judgment, thought the high chamberlain of England. And the queen is right. There is much to do and the king's obsession could threaten this hard-won peace. For the good of the country, something needed to be done.

“You have a rival.”

Elizabeth Wydeville hissed through closed teeth, as a cat does before it strikes. “Tell me what I do not know. I begin to think you have no power at all.”

The queen sneered as she spoke but her voice shook. The woman she had summoned seemed not to hear; she was focused on
her scrying bowl, nodding gently as if listening to voices from far, far away. Elizabeth, against her inclinations, was fascinated. It was not often, in these days, that she met people who were unafraid of their queen.

“Why do you need that thing?”

The girl smiled sweetly and raised her face. She was blind and had been from birth; milk-white eyes turned toward the sound of the queen's voice. Elizabeth shivered in distaste.

“Perhaps I see differently, Lady Queen. The bowl is useful. I can smell the light it sends me.”

“Smell the light? Nonsense! Light has no smell.”

The girl, Lilliana, shook her head. “To me it does. And when I do this, what I smell gives me answers to my questions.” The blind girl cupped her hands around the precious glass bowl. It was very old. The queen had never seen another like it. Delicate and pale blue-green, the surface of the glass was clouded as if it had lain in the sea, or a river, through aeons of time. As indeed it had. Miraculously, it was entirely whole.

Elizabeth Wydeville, superstitious as she was, had no patience for time-wasting blandishments. She needed information and she'd been told this woman was as good as a sibyl. “Tell me more. Describe this woman.” The queen sat back in her cathedra. This would be a test. If the girl passed it, she might believe what else she said.

“Since these eyes of mine have never seen as yours do, my descriptions may be strange to you, Lady Queen. But I shall do what I can.” Silence filled the little room. It was so quiet, the queen heard the whisper of her own blood. It was uncanny. Unsettling. Then…

“Do you hear that?”

Elizabeth jumped in her chair as the blind eyes settled on her own. The whispering grew louder; they could both hear it now. Water, not blood; rushing, falling from a height. There it was again: insistent, tumbling, a gathering roar.

The queen's mouth was dry. She forced her lips to form words. “Water? Why do I hear water?”

Lilliana held up her hand, listening intently, and when she
spoke she raised her voice against the sound. “There is a waterfall. Bright, shining. And there is bronze… something bronze, glinting in the sun. A kingfisher flies. An eagle flies beside it. There is another eagle… it attacks the kingfisher; the eagles are fighting. And now there is a peregrine. She flies at the kingfisher while the eagles are distracted.”

The queen sat back with flint-hard eyes but one shaking hand held the other tight. “You speak in riddles.”

The blind girl shook her head. “No. It is clear to me and, I think, to you.” She cupped the glass bowl in her hands, clouded eyes gazing down on the clear water it contained. “Hair the color of bronze and eyes like bright feathers, like jewels. Blue jewels, green jewels. You are nothing alike, Queen. But her rights are as strong as yours.”

Elizabeth Wydeville was lost between rage and fear. “You speak of rights, but she has none. None!”

“But if the truth was known, the people would feel differently. She has lost so much…”

“And what of my losses? My husband in exile and me fleeing to sanctuary? Never knowing if he would return or if I, and my new son, my daughters, would be murdered as we slept! Did I not suffer loss as she did?”

The girl glanced at the queen. “All that is yours has been returned. You remain the queen. That is what you want most. She, your rival, has given that up, willingly, for the good of the child, and the man.” The blind girl shook her head. “She lost everything that should have been given; now she has regained some of what was hers. Perhaps it will be enough. And yet, if she chooses to stretch out her hand…”

Elizabeth choked; hammering fury burned her chest. “If you mean my husband would marry this whore…?”

Lilliana, unperturbed, shook her head. “No whore, and not while you live. That tears at them both.”

The queen crossed herself with slashing movements. It never worked, this endless, restless search for answers to the questions that tormented her. “Take your fee. I will not keep money that has been besmirched by such malicious lies.”

Cruelly she threw her coins onto the tabletop, where they bounced and scattered across the wooden surface; several rolled to the floor, where they skipped, spinning, into the corners of the room. The girl made no move to scrabble for them.

“Keep the money, lady. Give it to the poor at your gates. I accept no payment for this gift—it is not mine to make money from.” The girl turned her head this way and that, seeking to sense where the queen was. It was unnerving and eerie. “I do not understand everything I say but I know that I speak the truth. I am sorry if this offends you but it is the only obligation I have for what has been given to me.”

Lilliana slumped back in her seat. She was exhausted, sweating and pale as the limed walls. White skin, white eyes, white headscarf. Perhaps she was an effigy made from snow? An effigy that would melt, leaving only a pool on the stone floor. The queen shook away the thought as she hurried to the door, turning her back without a further word. But as Elizabeth lifted the latch, Lilliana spoke once more.

“The king has a friend who is not his friend, not in all things. He should beware the man who comes out of the dark. The dark that he made.”

The queen paused for one moment more, questions clamoring to be answered, but as she turned back to demand information, she saw that the room was empty, even though there was just one way in and one way out: the doorway in which she was standing. Nothing else was there. No bowl, no table. No girl.

But there was a pool of still water on the floor. It shone white, reflecting the color of the walls.

And Elizabeth Wydeville, the Queen of England, woke.

Screaming.

Two nights later and the weather changed. Herrard Great Hall was buffeted, suddenly, with wind. Shutters banged all over the building as the gusts built and built, until a storm broke with the sound of an invading army. Little Edward woke in his truckle bed and shivered with terror; most frightening was an echoing crash that came and went. Storm giants!

The lightning flashed and flooded the room with white light. Outside, in the inner ward, his oak tree groaned and creaked. Thunder pealed directly above and the child screamed.

“Wissy! Where are you, Wissy?”

He yelled with all his strength, but no one came. For a moment, he huddled under the blankets, but then it happened again: a crashing noise in the distance. The giants were breaking in! He must save Wissy! Edward tumbled from his bed and ran across a space that was instantly vast in the dark and the light and the dark. He stumbled toward one of the three doors and, heart hammering in his chest, sobbing, struggled to lift the iron latch that was nearly above his head, stretching his toes to reach it until the bones seemed to crack.

Twice more white light broke the darkness, twice more the hammers of the storm beat down on the roof, but that terror helped him trip the latch and he was through the door at a run, calling frantically, “Where are you? Where are you, Wissy!”