The Uncrowned Queen (9 page)

“Yes. Warwick's reinstated Henry, and Margaret's son is back in the line of succession. Edward. Another one.” He grimaced and, for a moment, almost mentioned Anne de Bohun, Henry's other child. But then he stopped himself. Very few knew of Anne's royal descent. Or of his feelings for the girl. He would not discuss her now. He looked at his host with the glimmer of a smile.

“Can you imagine it, Louis? Warwick joining forces with the woman whose husband he and I tried to kill at Mortimer's Cross and Towton? As for brother George…” He laughed, a grating sound. “What chance the throne for him, now that the old queen
has Warwick to back her? And, as we said, there's her son, Edward, the grace-given boy.”

Both men chuckled. It was ancient scandal that marital relations between the previous, now restored, Lancastrian king, Henry VI, and his French queen, Margaret, had been anything but warm. So chilly had they become, in fact, that when the queen's son was first placed in the king's arms he'd piously said the child must have been fathered by the Holy Ghost, for he could not see how the boy was of his own get. Yet this same boy—son of his father or not—was now the prince of Wales once more, and Warwick, in swearing fealty to the old queen, must, of necessity, have sidelined Clarence's own ambitions to sit on the throne of England himself.

“Your master, Charles of Burgundy. Will he help me, Louis?”

Louis de Gruuthuse had been a diplomat for many years and his response was elegant. “Your Grace, I feel sure that my master is most agonized at your plight, bound together by family as you are. I am instructed to aid you in any way that I can, and to house you fittingly while you consider your future.” Elegant, but not direct.

Edward frowned. He was tired and less in command of his expression than usual, or he would not have been so unsubtle. “Well, let us see what this aid of yours consists of. However, it is imperative that I speak with Charles face-to-face. We must move quickly if we are to beat the French as they conspire with Warwick to hold England. King Louis wishes to isolate me, but there is much at stake for your master too. I need to retake my kingdom so that England can, once more, be the duke's strong ally against the French. He must see that.”

The sieur de Gruuthuse rose and bowed. “I am certain that my master sees all, Your Grace. But these are matters we should speak of when you are properly rested. Come, we have prepared a feast of welcome and entertainment to amuse you and your party. A little music and more good wine will help the world seem brighter.”

A credible facsimile of delight brightened Edward's face. “A feast? Charming thought! Dancing, music, and pretty women—these three will make us all feel better. I declare that I could eat the wretched gelding I've ridden these last days if you would only serve him up! Come, my friend, lead the way.”

Louis clapped his hands sharply. The two bronze-bound doors, with their allegorical scenes of the labors of Hercules, were instantly thrown back and the palace majordomo, flanked by at least fifty attendant gentlemen, including the English party of lords, sank down on one knee, heads bowed, to honor the governor and his exalted guest. Louis and Edward, matching their pace as if taking part in a courtly dance, entered the mighty space of the Ridderzaal, the Knights' Hall. This handsome cavernous chamber had been built by the unlamented Count Floris V, to adorn the castle that began as a hunting lodge two centuries earlier. It was a jewellike setting for courtly festivities, designed to show off the wealth and power of its now-supplanted owners. Perhaps there was a message in this, but that night, as all watched the English king laugh, compliment the dancers and the mummers, and distribute largesse when he left the feast for his bed (with coin provided discreetly by the governor) no one doubted for a moment that the situation in England was anything but temporary. Power, in the person of Edward Plantagenet, would be restored to its rightful place.

But Edward, when he closed his aching eyes in his bed chamber, finally let all pretense of mastery drop away. “Did my messenger find you, Anne? Will Charles help me? What must I do?”

William Hastings heard his master's mumbled words through the open door between his room and the king's. It was a question William also wanted answered.

It was unlikely Charles would help Edward's cause without great inducement, because Europe and Burgundy were most delicately poised. Duke Charles had achieved a cessation in hostilities with the French—a fragile peace, but one that was holding for the moment. To actively assist his Plantagenet brother-in-law would most likely cause Warwick and Louis of France to move together against Burgundian territory in the prosperous Low Countries—perhaps even the very citadel in which they slept tonight. The balance of power in Europe, relatively stable for a few short years, was beginning to teeter, and disaster loomed.

Yes, Hastings, too, hoped the king's messenger had reached Anne de Bohun in Brugge. She was close to the court, close to the duke. Charles might listen to Anne as a go-between, where he
would be suspicious of his own wife's opinions and intentions, as she was Edward's sister. Lord, let it be so, let the man have found her. Let her have agreed to help the king's cause with Duke Charles.

Surely Anne de Bohun would see that was her duty, whatever history had been between them? Surely she would help Edward Plantagenet?

There were secrets about the farm Anne had bought. And one of them was in the oak grove on a small hillock near the river.

Flanders and the countries about it were not called the Low Countries for nothing. The land, once covered by the sea—as evidenced by the seashells found so often in the good soil—was nearly completely flat, leveled by water long ago, most probably Noah's flood it was said. But there were still one or two pieces of raised ground close to Brugge, and the small hillock on Anne's farm was one of them. It was deep in the night, with a rising wind and a new sickle moon, and all the lights in the farmhouse were out. Even the carefully banked embers on the kitchen hearth gave out no active flame, though the ashes glowed fitfully as night air sighed and stirred in the chimney's throat.

Hour after hour, the new moon mounted the sky, until, in the darkest part of the night, when it had finally begun its long, slow setting, two figures stole out of the back door of the farmstead house and moved as quietly as shadows through the yard, past the animals sleeping in the winter byre. So softly did they tread that not even the geese wakened, nor the lurcher, kept to bring the cows in from the fields for milking. He slept before the kitchen embers peacefully, because Lisotte was kind to him now that the nights were cold.

As the wind dropped, frost settled out of the still air and the
two women found the going easy because the mud in the plowed fields hardened in the freezing night. Moving as quickly as they could, they hurried toward the distant river at the bottom of the home pasture. They could see their destination if they strained their eyes—the dark shape of the hillock with its almost leafless trees reaching into the sky above them.

“Are you sure you have it?”

“Yes, Deborah. Of course I have it.”

Anne and her foster mother reached the very end of the plow land and came to the stile in the hawthorn hedge that gave entrance to the hillock ground. There was only the last faint starlight abroad now, but it was enough: they could see the path in front of them, winding around and around their little hill, up to the ancient oaks crowning its top.

Deborah had been the first to recognize the path for what it was: an ancient track cut into the face of the hill which led, by a spiral path, right into the heart of the grove. Its discovery was the final omen Anne needed to convince her to buy her farm. Local legend said the little hill was not made by God, but man, a long, long time ago. It might even be the grave of an ancient king. Deborah and Anne did not doubt it when they saw the overgrown path winding around the hill.

This place had seen much life in its long past, well before the city of Brugge was founded or formed, or so Deborah believed. Neither woman had done anything to clear the path on the hill—so that none but they would know they came here—and the place had become their church.

Silently they hurried now along the spiral path until the darkness of the trees swallowed them up. From a distance, there was nothing to say the two had passed this way. But then the wind rose again, sighing. Something knew. Perhaps it was the earth.

“What was that?”

It was unlike Deborah to be fearful of the night, but for a moment it had seemed as if the ground beneath her feet, in the depth of the oak grove, had moved.

“I felt it too.”

Anne was uneasy. Something smelled strange up here. A storm
coming—was that it? And yet the sky was clear, so clear they could see the setting sickle of moon and the morning star beginning its rise in the east. They would have to be quick.

With cold fingers, Anne fumbled in the little bag slung from the belt around her kirtle. “Here it is, Mother.” She only called Deborah “mother” at moments like this, when the kinship between them became an even stronger bond. If one Seeker ventured out into the night world alone, another must remain behind to call the Voyager back. Mother and daughter, daughter and mother—so it had been for many generations. So it was tonight.

“Very well. But we must uncover the circle first, then we can light our way.”

Anne and Deborah hunted among the trees to find the collection of stones they'd previously laid out in a circle and then covered in fallen leaves. They were mostly rounded white quartz, water smoothed, secretly and laboriously brought up from the river over the months since summer.

“Help me, child.” Deborah was trying to carry the largest stone into the center of the circle. It was the size of half a woman and similarly shaped, even to the suggestion of arms, legs, and vulva. Surmounting the form was a “face” sketched by the line of a nose and a slit for the mouth. This stone was black and too heavy to lift alone.

Breathing hard from the effort, Anne and Deborah placed the woman-stone upright in the center of their little circle. Traces of wax could be seen on the head of the stone pillar; it had dribbled down like hair. Anne shivered when she touched it. The stone was bedded into a dimple hastily scraped in the earth floor, then Deborah flint-lit a wax candle; the
click
as she scraped sparks from the metal was very loud in the night. When the candle was alight, she handed it to her daughter, who carefully dripped new wax onto the old. It would form a bed in which to sit their light tonight.

Eyes closed, Anne cupped her hands around the wavering flame as it grew from a point. She could feel the warmth on her palms as it settled, sending a tiny trail of smoke into the freezing air. The honey smell from the wax was a faint breath of summer.

“Are you ready, daughter?”

Anne nodded. “I am ready, Mother.”

Deborah leaned forward and unclasped the pin that held Anne's cloak together at the throat; it was gold, a little dragon with blind eyes of pearl, the same color as the last of the stars. In one quick movement Anne shrugged herself out of the garment. She was naked. The cold night touched her skin and she sobbed one sharp breath, as a swimmer does on entering freezing water.

Deborah felt the cold in her own bones too but suppressed pity and fear. This was important, for the sacrifice must be willingly made. “Now?” she said.

Anne nodded and the women joined hands, kneeling down on either side of the stone pillar, their arms stretching around it completely. “The sacrifice.”

Shaking, Anne extended one hand toward the candle flame. Deborah brought an awl from the bag hanging at her belt. Quickly she pricked the girl's outstretched Jupiter finger so that one fat drop of blood, then another, fell into the transparent heart of the flame. A hiss like a cat, the smell of burning iron, and then the flame burned up again, clean, faintly blue. Unwavering.

Deborah, whispering, began a chant. “Mother of All, Mother of All, hear us, hear your children.”

Anne, her teeth clenched against the gripping cold, tried to sink herself in the darkness, fixing her eyes on the shape of the candle flame, echoing the words. Her hands were numb, and her mouth was stiff as she tried to frame speech. The flame, concentrate on the flame. “By the four winds and the seven seas, hear us. By the sun, by the moon, by the stars, hear us. We are your children and we cannot see in the dark. We ask you to bring us light, so that we may know what is needful, understand what is permitted. Mother of All, Mother of All…”

Nothing. There was nothing. Anne had stopped shivering but was still and cold as stone. Closing her eyes, she saw the red image of the flame behind her lids. Perhaps she was becoming stone herself, would turn to a rock and be left here for evermore? That was sad. As a little girl, she'd always felt so sorry for statues in winter. Worried about them in the dark sleet of winter, the snow and the frost…