The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Oh ho, Louis, so stuffy, so righteous. You count Flanders among your duke’s lands and yet my sister brought that to him as her dowry. Perhaps, since there’s no help from him or you, and our old alliance is clearly at an end, I should turn freelance and take it back? I need a base, since neither you nor he will give me one.” The king was deliberately working himself toward anger. He would break Louis’s resolve with whatever tools he had to hand.

  The sieur de Gruuthuse knew well that he was being provoked, but his innate courtesy was sorely affronted and he took the bait. “Oh yes? And that would mean, let me see, thirty men to take a province?” His voice held just the hint of a sneer.

  Real fury brought blood to Edward’s eyes. “Thirty men to take a kingdom, if you will not help me, Sieur de Gruuthuse. But, beware. Fail to assist my cause and Burgundy will be crushed!”

  The Plantagenets were famous for many things—long legs, great height, great charm—but it was also said they had descended from the Devil’s own consort, Melusine, through the female line. Stared down by red eyes in a marble pale face, Louis felt certain that the legend must be true.

  The king placed his hand on the great sapphire set in the pommel of his sword. “Choose, Louis. Choose now.”

  Louis de Gruuthuse was neither a coward nor a weak man, but he knew of the berserk fury that Edward found in battle. A fury that some said was a gift from God, and others a curse from another source entirely. That engorged rage was personified before him. Edward, on his feet and furious, was a terrifying sight.

  Slowly Louis lowered himself to one knee, though he did not bow his head. “Your Majesty, you do yourself no honor in this. I am not your enemy. But you are not my lord. I owe you nothing.”

  There was a moment’s aghast silence in the room; a silence that hummed like swarming bees. Louis heard the quiet hiss of steel withdrawn from scabbards.

  “Yet my lord, Duke Charles, is bound to you by blood. By marriage. I will serve your interests, and those of your family, as I serve his, but I may not give what is not mine to offer.”

  “Leave us.” Edward said it quietly, then, since no one moved, bellowed, “Leave us!” Primal and percussive, the roar bounced off the walls and men shook their heads to clear the ringing.

  Louis nodded to his outraged companions, waving them toward the great doors. Edward, after a moment, tossed his sword to Hastings, who caught it nearly in mid-air. The king wished peace. For now. The two groups of men backed from the hall, silent, dangerous, and watchful. Edward Plantagenet might not be a king anymore but the ferocity of his actions, his utter certainty, told that no one had discussed that fact with him very recently.

  “Oh, get up. Go on, man. Rise!”

  Louis got to his feet cautiously, his eyes never leaving the king’s. Somehow he’d retained an appearance of detached calm, but how he yearned to sob breath into lungs that had almost collapsed from fear and anger. Suppressing that urge, he spasmed into coughing. The king banged hard on his back as he lectured his host.

  “I was serious, Louis. If your duke will not see me, and you will not supply me with men, I fear I must take what I can from this country. You cannot expect me to stay mewed up and patient after all this time!” The last words were screamed into the chill air of the chamber and accompanied by a final hearty thump on Louis’s back that hurt like a blow. The world held its breath; all sound outside the room ceased. Louis closed his aching eyes. He could see them all in the anteroom as vividly as if he were with them: the English staring at the Flemish, each group daring the other to make the first move.

  “Your Majesty, I can do little. It pains me, but it is the truth. You must give my master more time. I beg you, please, do nothing rash.” By which he meant, nothing stupid.

  The Binnenhof had once been a great fortress for the Counts of Holland. There were dungeons here still and, though he felt sick at the thought, Louis might yet be forced to offer Edward Plantagenet lodging in one of those deep windowless chambers; an acknowledged prisoner at last, not just a frustrated guest. Would he do it? For a moment, an image of this magnificent man chained to a wall and starving flashed into Louis’s head, but he knew the answer as he knew his duty to the duke. Yes, he would do it, if he had to.

  The king gripped Louis’s shoulder painfully and thrust his face close. The governor’s head swam. He would faint! Then a film of pain descended over the brilliant blue of the king’s eyes. “Louis, I beseech you.” The words were whispered; the men outside, straining to hear, caught nothing. The silence filled them with dread; the same emotion that infected the blood of their masters.

  De Gruuthuse shrugged and his mouth was stiff as he tried to smile. “Edward, you must be patient. There is nothing more I can offer you. I am your friend and my master wishes to be your friend also. No!” The knight held up his hand as Edward’s eyes flew open in rage. “It is the truth! And you must understand. Now is not the time for sudden action. We need more information, all of us, about Louis’s plans. You must govern yourself in this, Edward. Nothing would please that spider more than to see you ride out from here, underattended, underarmed, so that he may scoop you up and destroy you! Where would your country be then?”

  “My country? My country does not want me or need me. My people will not care, perhaps.”

  It was said. All the fear, the uncertainty, and the terror had found a voice at last.

  Louis smiled, the kind of smile a father gives a beloved son when the boy first challenges his sire’s physical powers. “Lord king, that is not true. You and I both know that the greater magnates of your realm will wait, very patiently and carefully, to see if it is worth committing to the cause of Warwick. Especially now you have a son and the succession is safe.”

  It puzzled Louis de Gruuthuse that the king burst into laughter at those words, laughing until he gasped and nearly choked. “Yes, I have a son. The son I’ve always wanted!”

  The tone was odd; it seemed that the king was desolated by loss, rather than joyful at his good fortune. Louis ignored the strangeness; Edward was, after all, at breaking point.

  “You must trust my master. If you can find faith in his goodwill toward you, there is much to hope for regarding his support. Come, I feel certain that the feast is prepared. Perhaps you are hungry? I believe I could eat, if only to settle my stomach.”

  Louis attempted this little joke to raise the king’s spirits. But Edward Plantagenet had other thoughts. He shook his head.

  “No, Louis. I wish to pray. Can you arrange for a priest to say a mass?”

  “A thanksgiving mass for the birth of your son? I thought we were to do that tomorrow.”

  The king nodded. “Yes, tomorrow we will give thanks for my new son. This mass is for me, now. For strength. And that I may bring confusion to my enemies. Of which I have more than all the grains of sand in the sea.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Which way is s’Gravenhague, young sir?”

  The gooseboy was attempting to drive his reluctant charges through to the gates of Delft, yet he was flattered to be called “sir” by this giant man with the kind eyes. “Follow the road along the strand, Meinheer. It’s not far. With brisk walking you should be there before they close the gates tonight.”

  The big man’s wife—a small woman wearing a traveling cloak, her face well hidden by its hood—held out an English penny to the gooseboy and asked, “Is the strand road safe, young master?”

  The boy puffed out his chest; he’d never been called “young master” before either. “There is little traffic on the road, dame, in this season. The Lord de Gruuthuse keeps order well in his domain. Wolvesheads do not dare operate between here and s’Gravenhague; he hangs them and leaves them turning in the wind.”

  “We thank you.” The woman curtsied and hurried on after her man as he strode toward the line of dunes curving away to the north. It was a cold morning, with a low sky, and the clouds were soft steel-gray. The boy was already late getting his geese to the poulterer, but he
stood for a moment and watched as the two figures got smaller and smaller in the distance. He was puzzled. In these times there were few strangers on the roads, and yet this woman was plainly foreign, as was her man. The husband had spoken like a northerner, but his wife’s accent had been odd; French was it, or something else? Hard to tell. Perhaps they were dangerous and he should warn the authorities in Delft? He snorted even as he thought it; would they listen to a gooseboy?

  Besides, since when did spies have such gentle ways? The woman’s hands had been soft; he felt the tips of her fingers where she’d put the penny into his palm still. He wished he could have seen her face. She’d have to be pretty, surely, since she’d gone to such pains to hide it, probably on her husband’s instructions. Or perhaps she was grossly deformed. Was that it? Could she have been a leper, even? The boy shivered, suddenly fearful. Could he really have been touched by a leper?

  A sudden hissing and a volley of honks brought him back to reality to see his flock broadly scattered, looking for forage and squabbling over what little there was. Three or four of the biggest birds were pecking at each other, wings up, necks stretched, over the desiccated clumps that remained after the first severe frosts of winter. The noise drove everything else from his mind. His geese did not know that this was the last meal they would taste on earth and, at another time, he might have let them sort it out among themselves, for pity’s sake. But now he had to get his flock to the poulterer, and soon, or he’d catch more than leprosy!

  Anne heard the boy shouting as he chivvied his flock together. She smiled. How simple that child’s life was. So few concerns, so few duties. Just the geese and getting them to market. Her concern, in the meantime, was keeping up with her companion, who was striding ahead. “Leif? Leif! Slow down, please!”

  When the sailor stopped, finally, and turned toward Anne, his heart squeezed tight in his chest. The hood of her cloak had blown back in the sea wind and, unusually, she’d not covered her hair beneath it, not even with a kerchief. The unexpected sight of glossy bronze tendrils floating in the breeze hit Leif with the force of a blow. It was a provocation, her uncovered hair, and it was not fair of her, not decent.

  Anne was intimidated by Leif’s scowl. Perhaps he was still angry with her about the damage to the Lady Margaret? Her voice shook when she caught up to him, though she masked it with a cough. “What’s wrong, Leif? Are we lost?” She had thought they were friends, but now something cold touched her. Perhaps she’d been wrong. If so, her situation was much worse than difficult.

  “Leif?”

  He didn’t reply, busying himself with checking the soles of his sea boots.

  “Leif, is it the Lady Margaret? I thought the men you spoke with seemed honest. I am sure they’ll do as you asked in repairing her, and their price seemed reasonable to me.” She had her voice under control now. It was important not to sound afraid.

  Leif bit back hard words. How would this girl know honest from dishonest among shipmen? “We’ll see,” he said. “Hard to bargain when something must be done fast.” He was gruff, patronizing.

  Anne colored; a flash of anger spoke before she could choose the words. “You forget that I managed Sir Mathew’s trading fleet with Meinheer Boter in Brugge. I have a little knowledge in this area.”

  He was abashed but her defiant glance provoked a self-righteous response. “Cover your hair, woman. If we should meet other souls they will think it strange that my wife goes about so brazenly.”

  Anne had never seen the easygoing seaman this way before. “I had no time because you said we must leave so early. And everything was wet from the storm, even my kerchiefs. But if you think I should, ‘husband,’ I will do it, certainly.” She attempted a little joke to lighten the atmosphere between them.

  “Don’t call me that; it is foolish. Worse than foolish.”

  Anne saw the hurt in Leif’s eyes and quickly bent to open her pack, rummaging through her small bundle of belongings to cover the moment. “Ah, here it is. Damp, but it’ll do. You’re right, we should do nothing to arouse suspicion.”

  Deftly, she bound the white linen around her head, completely covering her hair. “There. Respectable again?”

  The sailor grunted. “We must hurry, we’ve a way to walk before dark.”

  Anne wrapped her spare kirtle around the heavy purse she’d been given by Margaret of Burgundy and shoved it right to the bottom of her bag once more. Her spare undershift and favorite shawl—the cheerful blue and yellow one she wore when working around the house—went in next. At the very top, she carefully placed a precious bone comb and a second pair of warm stockings. The ones she was wearing had helped with the blisters forming on her toes in the new willow-wood clogs, but if she needed extra padding she’d wear these as well. “I’m ready.” She stood beside Leif, head held high, composed and tidy. Her leather pack, buckled closed, was back on her shoulders. “Lead on, my friend, I’ll do my best to keep up this time.”

  For a moment, his face worked and it seemed as if he would reach out… but Anne had turned away to gaze north, into the future, and the hand he’d begun to extend did not reach hers. He snatched it back before she could turn and see.

  “Very well. We’ll rest from time to time, but we must walk briskly or we’ll find the gates closed against us.”

  For luck, and to keep storms away, he kissed Thor’s hammer on the chain around his neck. He would need more than the strength of the God of thunder on this journey, though. Loki’s cunning was required if they were to survive, plus the speed of Sleipnir, mount of Odin; and, to see the future, to choose the right way, he must seek the wisdom of the All-Father himself. And so they trudged on together into a bitter wind from the northeast; a freezing wind that whipped sand from the dunes into their faces and that was as cold and sharp as shards of glass.

  But not once, in the next few hours, did Anne complain. And not once, even if she stumbled, did Leif offer to help her. She knew why. Of course she knew why. And so did he.

  There were bells again, always bells, and though Edward tried to ignore them they had become a severe trial, for they measured out the agony of these uncertain days in pitiless bronze.

  The town of s’Gravenhague was still crammed with people celebrating the first Sunday of Advent. Darkness closed in as the Haguers wandered home in noisy groups and, one by one, lamps were lit in the houses like so many small stars. Edward and Richard rode quietly through the narrow streets, murmuring plans to each other as their horses ambled along.

  Since Edward’s last painful interview with Louis de Gruuthuse, his resolve had stiffened. The birth of his heir would give his supporters in England heart; the tide would be turning in his favor even now. Money or no, supporters or no, tomorrow at dawn he and Richard planned to cut their way through the town gate and make for Brugge. This was the focus now of all their urgent, whispering talk, all their plans. The how, the what, the when. Charles must be made to listen and, God willing, the rest would follow: men, money, armaments, and England.

  But then the bells came again, clamoring, calling out, instructing. Return to the palace, return to the palace, for if you do not, our master’s men will search you out. Go now, for the gates of the town must be closed, the streets emptied and chained against the night. Go now, while you are still safe, protected within the sound of our voices…

  Bells and men know about the night. The time of shadows is a time of unexpected things, a time when souls can be lost to the snares of Satan, to the uncontrolled wiles of the flesh. A time when the great wheel of fate begins to turn.

  “We should return to the Ridderzaal, brother, or our most saint-like host will become alarmed. We must be careful not to rouse his suspicion today.”

  Edward snorted. “Ha! At least we could supply Louis’s men with a little sport if they tried to chase us through these lanes among the people. By God, I know London’s streets are narrow, Richard, but these are absurd. And dangerous.”

  They were riding slowly behind an obedient
crowd of Haguers hurrying home when something caught the king’s eye. Or someone. He noticed the man because he was so tall; it was hard to tell in the fast-dropping dusk, but perhaps he and this stranger might even be of a height. Edward Plantagenet was used to being the tallest man in any gathering; to find another who matched him piqued his interest. The big man was striding away purposefully, followed by his much smaller wife, and walking so fast that the gap between the couple and the king was becoming greater by the moment.

  Edward pointed. “That man. See, brother? He looks useful.”

  Richard craned to look and nodded. “Seaman’s boots. We’ll need seamen. What do you think? Two-man press gang?”

  That was enough for Edward; the king spurred his horse, hurriedly bowing left and right as the animal leaped forward to not a few shouts and oaths. “Your pardon, dame, and you, sir… forgive us but…” Soon he was the length of his horse behind the tall man and felt safe to call out, in French, “Sir, would you pause for a moment? Sir?”

  Perhaps it was the press of people in the narrow street, or a last belligerent clang from the bells, or perhaps because the king’s voice was very loud and that startled his skittish horse as he called, “You, sir, you there. Stop!” But what happened next would stay with Edward Plantagenet until the moment he died.

  The tall man paused in his stride, then turned fast, defensively, an exposed knife glinting in one hand as the other was flung out, automatically, to defend the small woman at his side. She, surprised, turned back toward the king, seeking the source of the command, but slewed around too quickly. The cobbles of the roadway were greasy after rain and in that moment, with that sudden movement, the girl lost her footing on the filthy surface.

  Down she fell, down, but she saw him, saw the king, and he saw her, her face a white blur as the hood of her cloak fell back, bronze hair suddenly freed as the kerchief fell from her head, and she called him, called out his name, “Edward!”