The Uncrowned Queen (7 page)

“So, my liege, if you would give the order?”

Edward slid down from the bony gelding he'd been jolting along on for some hours. “Your turn, William. Up you get.”

Hastings protested. “No, Your Majesty. I will not ride while you walk.”

“My legs could do with a stretch.” Edward smiled. “Here, let
me help you up.” He cupped his hands so William could mount more easily. What he did not say, as he swung back to face his weary bunch of companions, was that he was more than grateful to ease his aching arse as well. The gelding's gait was particularly trying at a slow trot, which was all that could be managed if the men were to keep pace with the horses. “Not long to go. My good friend the sieur de Gruuthuse will make us a noble welcoming feast in his hall tonight.”

It was the slithering hiss that alerted them—the sound of steel being drawn from a metal scabbard—but too late. Edward's hand flew to the pommel of his own sword but he knew it was pointless.

“Drop your sword, messire.”

Edward's heart hammered painfully as he made out the number of men surrounding his own small band. How could they have been so careless, and so stupid? The crossroads was ringed by trees, many still in last leaf. It was a perfect hiding place for armed men, and now they were caught.

His assailant repeated the request. “Your sword, sir, if you please.” Edward nodded reluctantly and carefully extended his sword arm, his mind racing. The man had spoken in courteous French, presuming he was understood, and Edward was suddenly hopeful. Perhaps their captors did not know whom they had bailed up.

The Frenchman leaned down from his horse and twitched the blade from the king's fingers. His eyes glittered in the gloom when he saw what he had.

“But this is a very good sword, messire. Where did you get it?” The Frenchman spoke quietly; perhaps he did not want his men to hear. Suddenly it made sense. These men were outlaws, wolvesheads. Perversely, that gave Edward confidence.

“I will give it to you, and more besides, if you will help us.”

The leader of the wolfpack laughed heartily. “‘If you will help us'? Us, help you! Now, that is the strangest thing I have heard in all the days of my life.”

Suddenly the man's sword was at Edward's throat. English hands went to English swords in a dangerous breath.

“I do not think it is for us to help you, messire. On the contrary.”
Confident he was backed by his men, the Frenchman leaned from his horse again and ripped Edward's expensive sword belt and scabbard from his body. Richard's riding cloak was about to follow when Edward whispered, “Do not be a fool, my friend. You'll get more money in letting us live. Draw!”

Edward's bellow rang through the gloom and in an instant the English were clamped around their king, knee to knee in a dense mass. The overconfident outlaw leader was suddenly in their midst, on his increasingly panicked horse. He was ringed by drawn blades, English blades, and the air was dizzy with the promise of blood.

The Frenchman sat back in his saddle and removed his sword from Edward's throat. “Ah. Touché. Clever. And well disciplined.”

Edward held out his hand. “My sword.”

After a moment, the Frenchman gave it to him, though his men protested loudly. He had no other choice.

“But this will not save you, sir, because, as you see, my condition as your… guest… can only be temporary.”

The outlaw had courage and Edward liked that, especially since he now had his own sword point at his former assailant's neck.

“Get down.” The king said it mildly, but when the Frenchman appeared not to understand, he repeated it in a frigid tone. “I said, get down.”

The Frenchman shrugged and slid from his horse's back. “And so, what now, Englishman?”

Edward smiled as he mounted the outlaw's horse. Though thin, it was a much better animal than he'd been riding for the last few days. “You depress me. I thought I spoke your language without accent.”

“Speak French like a Frenchman? Bah! English arrogance.” Even off his horse, the little man was cocky, a bantam with formidable spurs. That, too, made Edward smile.

“Tell me your name, Frenchman. I should like to know it.”

“Before you die, Englishman?”

They were bantering now, quite enjoying themselves, while the men from both sides waited tensely to see what would develop.

“Hold him a little tighter, if you please, Richard.” The king gathered up the reins of the outlaw's rangy bay and settled himself comfortably into the saddle, adjusting the short stirrups to accommodate his own long legs. “I repeat, messire, what is your name?”

“Julian de Plassy.” It was said with pride and the small Frenchman held himself straighter, puffing out his thin chest.

“Well now, Julian de Plassy, you bear an honorable name but you are engaged in a dishonorable occupation. Would you like me to help you change that?”

The Frenchman raised his head, surprised, and the sallet he was wearing caught the light from the rising moon. His men pressed forward a pace, uncertain.

“No! Back,” he commanded, and his followers paused.

“They obey you. You lead them well, it seems.”

The Frenchman nodded, his confidence undimmed. “Englishman, how can you help me?”

Edward laughed. “Oh, I might know someone, who might know someone else. You know how it goes. But first, you must be our escort to s'Gravenhague tonight.”

The outlaw's eyes narrowed. “And what would our reward be if we agreed to protect you?” He said “protect” with the most subtle of sneers. The English pressed tighter, the points of their swords nudging the Frenchman in a way that was distinctly unfriendly.

“Your life will be your reward, Julian de Plassy. And the freedom of you and yours. I shall have the attainder against you lifted. I'm sure there is one.”

Julian de Plassy bowed ironically, in recognition. “My lord is wise beyond all telling.”

The king grimaced. “Not so wise as you might think. Yet I can tell you what the future holds, on this occasion. If God decides to call you home to his loving embrace, I can arrange that as his instrument on earth. However, a long life is better than a short one and God is merciful, even to you. You have this choice. Which is it to be, Julian de Plassy? Choose now.”

Anne shivered. It was cold and dark in the still hour before dawn. She was on her knees at her prie-dieu, praying for help and guidance.

Almost every silver penny, every English Angel she possessed from her trading days in Brugge had been sunk into her small farm and its rebuilding. There were some precious furnishings in her house, including her bed and the great devotional portrait she'd commissioned from the German painter Hans Memlinc, but much else had been sold to buy the plow horses, the seed, the expensive wheeled plow, and the labor she needed to work her land. She'd had plans, big plans, to make her farm prosper and to live a good and quiet life raising her son. All that seemed pointless now.

Last evening she'd had word from Duchess Margaret confirming that Edward was alive but that Charles of Burgundy had declined permission for him to come to Brugge. Worse, he'd forbidden his wife from going to her brother or aiding him in any way.

Anne opened her eyes into the candle-wavering darkness. Why? Why had Charles turned against Edward, his brother-in-law and friend? And what should she do—what could she do—to help Edward? With the king deposed, perhaps she and her son would be safer in London. Elizabeth Wydeville was no longer queen and so perhaps, now, she would not hover in the dark of Anne's dreams, an ever-present threat to the child she called her nephew.

But if Margaret of Anjou came back to England and Anne's own father, Henry VI, was restored, would his daughter be welcome in her native country? Her half-brother, another Edward, would reign, but would Margaret acknowledge her husband's baseborn child, the granddaughter of Henry V, in her restored kingdom? Anne knew it was Margaret who had tried to kill her own mother, Alyce, all those years ago when she'd heard Alyce was pregnant with her husband's child. And now Anne herself had a son with a king.

It was all so tangled. Anne closed her aching eyes. What should she do? What could she do?

“The timing is wrong.” Anne jerked and spun toward the voice. Deborah was standing in the open doorway, a lantern held high.

“What makes you say that?”

Deborah looked back over her shoulder before she closed the door. She went to the fireplace and knelt to arrange kindling over the straw. “Politics. And the news about the king last night. You must wait to hear more. Now is not the time for decisions.” She struck flint to the laid fire.

“But I need advice, Deborah. Badly. It's all so very complicated.”

Deborah smiled. “Well then, here is my advice. First we dress. Then we eat. These things are simple. And after that? Then, we think.”

Anne's tiny workroom was the only truly private space in her busy home. Now, as a pale sun struggled to bring light to the world, Deborah arranged their breakfast on a low table in front of the sputtering fire there. The table was just large enough to support a deep bowl of fresh goat's-milk curd, a piece of hard cheese, a stone jar of pickled walnuts from Anne's own trees, and fresh-baked flat-bread from the brick oven Leif Molnar had built in the kitchen yard.

Anne drew up a joint stool and held her hands to the flames; each morning now was a little colder than the last. She was glad for the warmth. “I think of Edward all the time, Deborah. He needs troops and money. And if the duke will not help him, I must.”

They were words that would seem scandalous if overheard. An unmarried woman yearning for her lover. Her married lover. For Edward was very married, to Elizabeth Wydeville, the queen of England, who had tried to murder Anne some years ago. It was something of a tradition for the queens of England where their husbands' lovers were concerned. Deborah held out her hand to her foster daughter. At last Anne's silence had broken. “Troops and money? These things cannot be my concern, or yours. Love is another matter.”

“But, Deborah, Edward needs money most of all, and soon, if he's to strike back at Warwick. He sent the messenger to me, remember? I feel so responsible that the man died before he could tell me what the king wanted. Whatever it is, Edward is relying on me. I have to think through this puzzle. I will not let him down.” Anne turned to her foster mother. “I must sell the farm.”

Deborah, concentrating on filling horn beakers with their own ale, heated, spiced, and brewed with honey from the hives in the old orchard, only half registered the words. “What did you say?”

Anne spooned curd into Deborah's bowl and handed it to her, avoiding her eyes. “I said, I must sell this farm.” Deborah was deeply upset. What difference could the price of one small farmstead make in helping Edward's cause? “But what about all your hard work? And the boy? What will become of little Edward—or, indeed, you—if you sell this place?”

“Deborah, the king will succeed and we shall receive the price back, and more, when he takes back his throne. It must be done. We must get the money to him.”

“Mistress?” A gentle cough outside the workroom door was followed by a discreet tap.

“Yes, Vania?”

Vania was little Edward's nursemaid and helped Deborah run the house. She was a calm, plain girl with a strong back and kind eyes, who, having been brought up a dairy farmer's daughter, knew all there was to know about cows and goats. She sounded distinctly flustered. “You have a visitor, lady. She's in the hall, waiting for you.”

Anne, mystified, rose to her feet. These were certainly odd
times. “Please finish your breakfast, Deborah. I'll return very shortly.” As she hurried the few steps toward the hall, Anne could hear Lisotte singing in the kitchen. She smiled, worried as she was, when she heard Edward join in. It was a song about lambs losing their mothers then finding them again. If only real life were so simple, thought the mistress of Riverstead Farm—the very English name given to this most Flemish of places.

She pulled aside the heavy cloth covering the doorway into her hall and greeted the stranger seated by the hearth. “You are welcome to my home.”

The lady was cloaked and hooded, so her face was in shadow, but as Anne spoke she jumped and the hood fell back.

“Your Grace!”

Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, rose and hurried forward. “No! Do not call me that, Anne. No one knows I've come. Not even Charles. He thinks I'm on retreat praying for a son.” The duchess smiled, strained and pale. “I've come to ask a favor. A very great favor. One only you can grant.”

Anne was bemused. “I had made up my mind today to ask one from you. And here you are.”

The women sat together and spoke in urgent whispers.

“Your Grace, I must sell my farm to raise money and I need your help to find a buyer. Perhaps one of the duke's followers?” Anne clasped Margaret's hands.