The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  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.

  “What do you see?” Margaret’s tone was urgent. “Anne, tell me. Please!”

  Anne released a long breath, her eyes far away. The hairs on Margaret’s arms stood up. “I am fearful of what I see, Duchess. Danger, all around him. Blood. Every night lately and…”

  The duchess spoke quickly. “Is it just dreams, Anne? Or do you see him at…other times?”

  “Sorcery.” The word hovered unsaid, with the power to ruin both their lives.

  “I do not ask for this, Duchess. It comes unbidden.”

  Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, was well liked by her subjects, but she had been one of the “Ladies of England.” Command, when she chose to use it, came effortlessly.

  “Therefore, Lady Anne, it must come to advance God’s purpose for us all. Tell me what you see. Is he alive?”

  Anne shivered. “Yes, he lives. But he was hurt. I think he nearly died…” How to describe the moment? She had been standing in her farmyard, stirring cloth in a vat of mordant, when it happened. Instant darkness, sand and salt water in her mouth—and his. Choking, vision failing, she’d tried to suck air into lungs collapsing beneath the weight of the sea. Men’s distant screams as everything, all sight, all sound, was absorbed by the violent water. Then… agony! Hauled upward by the arms, the limbs nearly jerked from their sockets against the strength of the tide that held her—his—legs and feet with the strength of death.

  “Where? What happened?” The duchess’s tone was sharp and the soft hum of voices around them paused. Margaret looked up quickly and laughed. “Come, ladies. I’ll tell you all Lady Anne’s delicious gossip in a moment.” An answering tinkle of laughter ran around the room as heads bent back to embroidery. Margaret turned her strained and brilliant smile toward her friend, murmuring, “And so?”

  “Men were riding very fast down a beach as the tide came in. The king was with them. They tried to race the sea but the king’s horse floundered and he fell. There was quicksand and—”

  Anne could not stop the tears of terror and anguish. She turned her face away to hide distress while Margaret, sensitive as always, said loudly, “Yes, a very early autumn, I fear. Who would have thought it after the great heat of the summer? The first frost has turned all the roses quite black.”

  Anne stared into the sun outside the casements, hoping the light would burn back her tears. Why did she feel like crying all the time? Fear’s bony fingers gripped her. Perhaps she was denying knowledge of Edward’s death? Was that what the tears truly meant?

  “We must send to him,” Margaret whispered. “Find him. Find out what has happened.”

  Somewhere from the distance, a tide of sound washed toward the duchess’s private quarters. Shouts and running feet. A moment later there was a thump on the solar door and a voice outside announced the last man on earth the duchess expected to see.

  “Your Grace!” Margaret jumped to her feet. Only years of training suppressed the passionate need she felt to run to her husband and leap into his arms.

  Brown as good leather, bright-eyed and filthy from the long ride, Charles of Burgundy smiled at his wife, a glancing, complicit look that said, “I understand.” He advanced into the room, bowing charmingly left and right. “Ladies, sweet ladies, I must ask you to leave the duchess and me alone.” Then he noticed Anne. “Ah, Lady de Bohun. Perhaps you might stay?”

  Charles of Burgundy herded his wife’s laughing women through the solar’s double doors before closing them himself. The brightness in his face ebbed and he now looked like the man he was—exhausted, stretched beyond bearing. “I wanted to tell you myself. I did not trust a messenger.”

  Margaret sat suddenly. Outside, in the garden, a gentle wind was nudging leaves from the trees. The last bees of summer lent an air of false, busy contentment as they robbed pollen from the fading flowers.

  “Is he dead?” Anne spoke Margaret’s thought, unbidden.

  Charles shook his head and strode over to a table where a silver flask of wine and goblets were arranged. “No. But he’s lost the country. He fled England more than a week ago. I’ve had word that he’s landed and is marching south toward the Binnenhof at s’Gravenhague. I’ve sent people to find him and escort him so that soon he will be safe with our governor there, Louis de Gruuthuse. No doubt Edward means to rest his men at the Binnenhof before continuing his journey to us. We shall see…” He swung back to face his wife, a brilliantly polished beaker glinting in his hand. The room was silent as he swallowed the wine to the lees and belched discreetly.

  “And?”

  Margaret was white with strain and Anne forgot to breathe as both women waited to hear what the duke would say.

  Charles of Burgundy closed his eyes. He had been riding for most of the night. He wanted his wife’s counsel, and her body, but first, perhaps, food and sleep might restore his judgment. He sighed deeply. “Ah, wife. I know what you want me to say. And you, Lady Anne.” Charles knew Anne still loved Edward, though he had no idea if the king reciprocated her passion after all this time.

  “Edward has always been good to Burgundy, husband.”

  “Indeed he has. That is certain.”

  Briefly, wolfishly, the duke smiled as he looked at his wife—his gift from the kingdom of England. She was beautiful, and he enjoyed her body and her company, but that was a bonus. She had brought Flanders as a dowry when they married; even more important, she was the living symbol of his duchy’s alliance with England through her brother, the king. Now that alliance was gone. Finished. The pieces on the chessboard of Europe would rearrange themselves once more and it might be beyond his power to control the direction of the play.

  Earl Warwick had driven Edward Plantagenet out of England, which gave Fr
ance the power to interfere with English politics through Louis XI’s manipulation of the vain and insecure earl. A very dangerous situation indeed. England and France banded together in a new alliance would pose a truly powerful threat to Burgundy, a threat Charles might not be able to counter. So would he help his brother-in-law regain the English throne? Would he? Or was it already too late?

  “Therefore, will you assist King Edward, Your Grace?”

  Charles laughed, an unexpectedly happy sound. “Ah, Lady Anne, why am I not surprised by your candor?” He shook his head, avoiding an answer, instead addressing Margaret almost casually as he yawned. “Louis must be enjoying all this, wife. He’s got what he wanted.”

  Louis XI, king of France, was Burgundy’s and the duke’s own very personal enemy. For it was Louis who stood between Burgundy as a duchy and Burgundy as a kingdom, with Charles its king. King Charles I of Burgundy. It had a good ring to it. But without the help of England as his ally while he waged a slow war in the Lowlands against France, would it ever happen?

  Charles must choose his next move very carefully. How strong was Warwick, now that he had caused Edward to flee with Louis’s help? And would the magnates and the baronage of England support the earl if he put that fool, George of Clarence, Edward’s turncoat younger brother, on the throne? Warwick had at last succeeded in marrying his daughter Isabel to the young duke, hadn’t he? That was a throw of the dice toward creating another royal family for the country to follow. Yet what about Margaret of Anjou and this new alliance with her old enemy, the earl? She had borne a son to the former king, Henry VI, and now that boy would be reinstated into the succession of England as prince of Wales, most assuredly. Where would that leave Edward’s brother Clarence, married to Isabel or not? Charles closed his eyes for one weary moment but the automatic speculation did not stop.

  Would it advantage him, and Burgundy, to support Edward or should he desert his brother-in-law and try to make peace with Warwick, Margaret of Anjou, and Clarence? Would that be the wisest course for Burgundy in the long run? Would it keep Louis at bay a little longer?

  The duke yawned deeply and blinked, the image of a man exhausted past all knowing. Margaret hurried to his side. “Ah, husband, what you need most now is your bed.” She did not say sleep; she was hoping for more than that.

  Anne de Bohun watched as the duchess put her arm around her husband’s shoulders. Perhaps it was the concern of a wife, or perhaps it was because Margaret yearned to touch Charles, touch any part of him, since she’d hungered so long in his absence. Anne understood that. She picked up the skirt of her gown and walked behind the duke and duchess toward the solar’s doors. The question had not been answered, though it hovered in the air like phantom thunder. They would have to wait to learn more of the duke’s intentions.

  Anne tried to be glad for her friend as she paced behind her and the duke. Margaret’s husband had returned to her unharmed and that was a joyful thing. Why then did she, herself, feel such sadness—indeed, envy—as she saw the duke slip his arm around his wife’s graceful waist? In truth, she knew the answer.

  Some years ago, she had chosen to leave England, to go into exile. She had left Edward Plantagenet behind and, gods knew, though it had been a wrenching choice, she’d believed it was the right one. But seeing lovers together again after a long absence was hard. She was young and she yearned for her man, just as her friend the duchess did.

  And then Anne remembered what Charles had said. Edward was now within the duke’s domains.

  Hope bloomed in her heart. Dizzy, fluttery hope. She would see him again. Soon. If she allowed that to happen. And if she did, she would meet once more the three companions who walked beside her when she was with Edward Plantagenet. Fear and joy. And love. Which would be strongest this time?

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Where are we, Hastings? This is charming countryside, but I’ve had enough of it.” Edward was cold and hungry, as they all were, but he kept his tone light. William Hastings, swaddled to the eyes in a stained hunting cloak, turned back and grinned at the king, his white teeth bright in the gloom.

  “There is good news, my liege. We’re close. Only five leagues or so south down the coast to the walls of the Binnenhof and a warm welcome from the sieur de Gruuthuse. This man says there’s a good track all the way, with only a few fishing villages on the dunes. We can avoid them easily.”

  The weary party of men had just reached an intersection of the farm track they were following with another. The light was fading rapidly and Hastings had been pleased to see a farmer trudging home from working his strips of land. It had been an odd conversation, an exchange composed of the few crumbs of Dutch possessed by the Englishman plus scraps of old high German and the farmer’s one or two French phrases, but it had told William what he needed to know. By the grace of God, they were close enough to s’Graven-hague and the Binnenhof, the erstwhile seat of the Counts of Holland, to reach it tonight. William crossed himself gratefully. It had been a risk to ask for directions, but their case was urgent enough to gamble on information of their presence spreading, even from this most isolated place. If they could just get to the Binnenhof ahead of the news of their arrival, it would be worth it.

  He’d had little to trade for this welcome information, however, and that worried him. He’d given his last piece of coin to the man, an English threepenny bit, but it might not have been enough to buy a night’s discretion. The coin had been good silver, though, that was something. Truly God did move in enigmatic ways. In his previous life as England’s chamberlain—such a short time ago—William had reformed the English currency against the abuse of corrupt coin dealers, who “clipped” the edges of legitimate coins, mixing the stolen metal with lead or tin and issuing false coin. Such activities had caused confidence in the currency to plummet, with disastrous results for England, and for trade. But Hastings’s work had put a stop to the practice, and the Dutch farmer, after biting the coin to test it for hardness, seemed to approve. William had almost laughed. Perhaps God had guided him to improve the metal weight of English coins just so they could command one night of silence from this Dutch farmer.

  Amused by the thought, William moved through the party of men, taking stock of their resources. There were only five horses among them all and that meant slow progress, even though the end of this weary journey was now so close. By their looks, and their silence as they waited for orders, the men were dangerously tired. After weeks of cold and dangerous fighting in England, they’d endured the hardships of a sea voyage and then walked south for two days with little food. Mostly they’d traveled at night, the nobles, including the king, taking turns to ride while the rest walked. During daylight hours they’d slept under their cloaks among the dunes, huddling together like dogs for warmth, not daring to light fires. By this morning what food they’d had was gone and the king had taken the decision to travel by daylight as well to make all speed. Perhaps the boldness had paid off. William fervently hoped so, but only the last leagues ahead would tell the case truly.

  “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 point
less.

  “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.