The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Are you cold, my darling?” The duke breathed the words softly, for her alone, and strolled toward his duchess, prolonging the moment until, at last, he was close.

  The duchess shook her head, then nodded. “No. Yes! This silly garment… it has no warmth.”

  She smiled provocatively as she held up the silk of the gown for his inspection, allowing the delicate fabric to run through her fingers like water. Charles was staring at her face, her throat, dropping his eyes down the length of her body so deliberately it was as if he touched her with his fingers. She blushed and murmured, “Stop, Charles. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Dismiss them.”

  A sensible man did not order his wife to do anything. But Margaret was not displeased. She shivered at his tone and obeyed, though she had little breath to speak with.

  The women left, giggling, calling out wishes for a “good night.” The room was suddenly very quiet. The duchess was not cold now.

  “It is a happy thought, this gown.” Her husband still had not touched her, though he was standing closer now and closer again.

  “I’m pleased you like it, Charles.” The duchess tried to keep her voice evenly modulated, but it was hard, for her breathing, and his, was a little ragged.

  “Yes. Particularly because…” And now he touched her, one finger tracing the line of embroidery at the neck, which led to the loosely tied ribbon between her breasts, almost as if it were meant as a sign, an indicator. He untied the ribbon, slipped one hand inside the loosened garment, searching. “…it’s transparent.”

  His wife gasped. “Oh, but that’s so—” The rest of her words, her embarrassment, were smothered as he kissed her, pulling her body hard to his, both hands holding her hips against his own.

  “Mmmmm. You smell delicious. And you taste… divine.”

  How busy his tongue was, teasing her, licking the inside of her lips; his mouth nibbling her with tiny little bites, her ears, the column of her throat and down, down to her nipples.

  She gasped as he slid the dress off her shoulders and she stood, naked, in a puddle of silk, her eyes closed. Tears pricked behind her lids from intense, melting desire. She wanted him, ah, God and Mary, how she wanted him.

  “Lie down.”

  There were sweet new rushes on the floor. Not for Margaret of Burgundy the bare tiled floors of the north. Gracefully she knelt naked before him and then, allowing him to watch, lay back, pulling the silk of the despised nightdress beneath her so that it formed a golden coverlet over the rushes. She saw, in her mind, what he must be seeing and was astonished she was not ashamed.

  The light from the fire flickered over her perfect skin, her virginal body, unmarred by time or childbirth. Charles was dazzled. “A maiden, lying in a meadow,” he said.

  The duke was a sensualist and a connoisseur of women. Before he had wed Margaret, he’d been certain that their marriage, contracted for dynastic and political reasons, would be, at best, pleasant. He had taken two other wives previously, for similar reasons, and one had given him his daughter, Mary, now an adolescent. He had felt little desire for either of the women, though he had been careful, of course, to honor them scrupulously, not least in sharing their beds from time to time. But Margaret of England was different. Very different, for he had fallen in love, and lust, with the Lady Margaret when her brother, Edward Plantagenet, had placed her hand in his two and a half years ago in Damme Cathedral. And he loved and lusted for her still. That was a record for a man who had, hitherto, sought his pleasures outside the marriage bed.

  Charles looked down at his lovely girl now as she, catlike, stretched and yawned delicately. He laughed, undoing the buttons on his jacket. “Tired, Duchess? Perhaps you need to sleep?”

  Now his jacket was gone, dropped behind him on the floor, and his shirt. He stood above her, bare-chested, unclasping his belt, dressed only in black velvet hose. She could see every defined muscle in his thighs beneath the gleaming surface of the tight cloth. Her throat was so dry she swallowed. She tried to speak, but could not.

  The duke smiled. His experience of sensuality was much greater than hers—he had been her only lover—but she held much charm for him in spite of, or perhaps because of that. Her response to him was direct, unfiltered. She lusted for him as he lusted for her, and that was a gift from God.

  Margaret watched the muscles gather and slide under her husband’s skin as he bent to remove his hose. Then he stood. Naked. Magnificent. Hers. “Is my wife cold, that she shivers so?”

  Charles was grinning at her now as he knelt, his hands sweeping up the inside of her feet, knees, thighs. Higher. She gasped, and for a moment he straddled her hips with his knees, then, with exquisite control, he lay full length upon her, his knees nudging her own apart. “Speak to me. Let me hear your voice,” he whispered into her ear as he entered her body. The shock was piercing, centered, and she felt herself tremble and melt and open around and beneath him.

  “Ah, Charles, I fall apart. I am split like a willow wand.”

  The building pleasure was intense and she dissolved into it. Molten, it gathered, hot and dark and urgent. He moved fast, faster, pinning her arms apart, bracing himself against her wrists, his full weight behind his pelvis. He felt himself harder than oak inside her, and she was so soft, so buttery soft.

  She keened as she stared into his eyes, her own open and wild, holding her hips up to his, higher and higher, moving them to match his rhythm. For him, the intensity between them was teasingly unbearable and, as she called out, he smothered her mouth with his, ate her scream, taking the sound deep into his body, his chest, down into his groin… and that was his release. And hers.

  As deep as tears, rich and sweet, the joy they gave each other on that cold night would stay with them both as long as each had breath. They lay before the fire, naked as children, he curled protectively around her body, and for a little time both drowsed.

  But the fire reduced to embers, and the chill lapped inward from the walls to find them. Shivering, Charles stirred and kissed Margaret’s shoulder. “Come, little heart of mine. Time for bed or we shall both freeze!”

  Margaret yawned as she struggled to sit up, her whole body relaxed and loose. For modesty’s sake, she scooped up the silk bed robe and held it against her body. It made Charles laugh as he tossed logs onto the embers to revive the fire.

  “Charles, do you think we will have made a child tonight?”

  He heard the courage in her deliberately light tone and he reached down to help her stand. “Well now, if we have not, it will not be for want of trying, wife.”

  They both laughed as he pulled her to him, kissing her on the brow; then he found her hand and led her to the tented bed that stood against one wall. “There, climb up, my love. Perhaps the sheets will still be warm.”

  Margaret’s grimace said otherwise as she clambered up and wriggled beneath the counterpane. Shivering, she pulled the sheets and blankets high around her chin, trying to stop the chattering of her teeth. “Not even a ghost of the warming pan, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should have worn the bed dress after all.”

  Charles quickly scuttled to the foot of the bed, then jumped up and vigorously burrowed into the bedclothes, tunneling across the vast acreage of the mattress to seek the warmth of his wife’s body. Finding it, he clamped himself against her, belly to spine. “We will warm ourselves, never fear, my darling.”

  Margaret laughed. Her rump against his belly, she could feel him stir against her. “And how does Your Grace intend that blessed state to occur?”

  She was demure and that piqued his lust again, though he was tired, so tired. He could not stop himself. He yawned. “Ah wife, I fear I must sleep.” She smiled in the darkness as he snuggled against her, one hand on her breast, the other gripping her by the waist.

  She was close to sleep herself but then she remembered what she needed to ask him. “Charles, have you heard anything of Edward? Charles?”

  She was too late. Deep, even breathing said th
e duke of Burgundy had been claimed by Morpheus. The duchess sighed, and closed her eyes. But not before praying, briefly, that her brother and Anne might have found each other. And that each of them was well and safe.

  Soon Margaret of Burgundy, the former Lady Margaret of England, slept. But her husband, the duke, did not. He had heard her question and he had an answer to it. But it must wait for the morning.

  Terrified, he forced himself to wake, but there was no comfort when he did, only fresh despair. He had dreamed again, had seen her face covered in blood, the gaping wound in her head. Had seen her go down once more, screaming, beneath the horse’s iron-shod hooves. Every night, again and again, he was too late to save her. She died because it was his fault. He had not guarded her well enough.

  Slowly, the jolting of his heart settled and faint shapes emerged from the noisome dark, black against charcoal gray. He was thirsty, and so cold that every joint in his body ached. They had left him water—if he chose to reach out his arm, stretch his fingers and feel for the edge of the wooden bucket—but, as always, he would not drink. He would wait for the small beer of morning. Drink the water in this foul place and he would die of gaol fever, nothing was more sure.

  Anne. Was she alive still, or had she truly died after they brought her to this place?

  Metal scraped against metal. The Dane sat up. Someone was turning the key in the lock!

  “Oy! You in there?” It was a voice Leif knew, the only human sound he’d heard in many days.

  “Do you come to torment me, gaoler?”

  The other man laughed and hauled open the cell door. The light was dazzling after all this time in the dark. “If going to a better place is torment to you, then yes, I’m your man.”

  Leif struggled to stand, pain fizzing as the blood moved through his cramped limbs. “A better place? Heaven—is that what you mean?” He swallowed his fear. Perhaps his time had come. He hoped his death would be quick.

  The other man laughed again as he unlocked the manacles around Leif’s ankles, the iron rings that chained him to the wall. “Man, you’re a fool. Come.” He poked Leif into a stumbling walk in front of him, up the steps and out of the cell.

  “Tell me, does she live?” the captain pleaded. “Did my wife survive? Tell me.”

  “Keep walking, my friend. Just keep walking. You’ll hear soon enough. Soon enough.”

  And that was all the answer Leif Molnar obtained that night as he followed his gaoler through the groaning, freezing darkness beneath the Binnenhof.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Relaxed, well fed, and warm for the first time in some days, Edward Plantagenet was fighting sleep beside Dame Philomena’s fire. Around him, his men lay among the deep straw that covered the floor, twitching like so many hounds as they dreamed.

  The king yawned and stretched, nudging Hastings, who was slumped down beside him, head on the board they’d eaten at.

  “Anne. Did you see where she went?”

  The chamberlain sat up in a scramble, hand already on the sword at his belt; half awake but more than ready to kill. “What? Where?”

  The king laughed, entertained by his companion’s automatic response. “Formidable, my friend. But we have no need of the sword. Anne. Where did she go?”

  The chamberlain shrugged, blinking, and ran one hand through hair matted from days in the saddle.

  “Perhaps she’s with our hostess. The kitchen?”

  Both men grimaced slightly. “Ah, yes. Our Lady of Sorrows. Well, perhaps I should find them…”

  William Hastings said nothing in reply because there was nothing to say. It was the king’s affair if he chose to seek out Lady Anne de Bohun, with or without Dame Philomena.

  Edward smiled as he stood. “Sleep, William. It will not be dawn for many hours. Rest is important. We’ve a day or so of hard riding still to come.”

  Lord Hastings nodded and sighed. Rest. Sleep. Such lovely words. His head fell to the board once more, and he was snoring before the king had reached the stairs that led down to the kitchen.

  “Anne? Anne, are you there?”

  The house breathed quietly in the cold night. Thick walls and small rooms held the heat of the evening and the banked fires well. The low-ceilinged kitchen was still haunted by the ghost of the dinner that had been cooked for the English, and it was a comforting, domestic-smelling silence that greeted Edward when he found his way there. Abruptly, he was homesick. The smell of roasted meat made him think of Windsor and the Christmas revels. Would he ever see another? He forced himself to banish the fear.

  “Dame Philomena?” he called.

  “Shush. I’ve managed to get her to sleep, poor thing. Her story is very sad. Her daughter was taken by brigands as she walked home from a fair. Dame Philomena thought I was she, returning.”

  The king swung around at the sound of Anne’s voice. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

  Anne stood in the shadows of the kitchen, holding a lamp high. The light was soft, enchanting; it poured dark gold onto Anne’s hair. Quickly the king strode over to her and, twitching the lantern from her grasp, enveloped her body with his arms. “Ah, my darling, my darling girl.”

  He could not have enough of her mouth, and when she tried to speak, he ate her words with kisses. Anne gasped and, like a drowning swimmer, struggled toward breath, toward speech, but he held her tighter.

  “No! I don’t care if you are his wife!”

  “Edward, please!” She was pulling at his hands, his iron arms. But he would not let her go—until she caught her breath in a sob. Then he dropped his hands and they stood together, not touching, each stricken by the presence of the other. Edward was breathing hard, striving to control himself. An onlooker would think him ill, perhaps in deep pain from an unseen wound.

  Now, when she needed words most, Anne could not speak either. She shook her head.

  “You have ceased to love me.”

  It was a flat statement, desolate, and the last thing the king expected in response was laughter. But, once started, Anne could not stop. Until she cried—and that was all the answer he needed. Sighing, Edward took Anne in his arms, gently, softly, this time. Picking her up by the waist with both hands, he deposited her on the kitchen board, a sturdy, high trestle, and stood with his knees between her own. And when he kissed her, that was gentle too. Sweet, chaste almost. Almost.

  He nuzzled Anne’s neck and felt her shiver. Then, pushing the hair back from her face, he stopped, surprised. “Your hair is wet. And you’ve taken the bandages off.”

  He sounded so alarmed, Anne found herself soothing him. “It’s healed well but I was so dirty from the ride I couldn’t bear it any longer. I washed myself, and my hair. Dame Philomena is a good housewife. She has dried soapwort and rosemary water.”

  Edward was worried. “But the night air? This is dangerous!” He touched her scalp lightly, feeling for the stitches. In the uncertain light, it was hard to see the site of the wound among her hair. “Does it hurt you, my darling?”

  Anne shook her head. “No, not now. It itches a little, which I think must be good.”

  She yawned and leaned against his chest with her eyes closed. She was tired, so tired. Her body ached from the long ride of the last days. “I have so much to tell you,” she murmured. “Things you must know. But perhaps it can wait until the morning?” She yawned more deeply still, setting the king to fighting sleep himself. “No one’s going anywhere tonight.” He slipped an arm around her waist and found himself rocking her as Anne snuggled into his shoulder like a trusting child. “Come. Sleep is what we both need.” Edward knew there were other rooms in the upper part of the house besides the hall. One or another of them must have a bed in it.

  Anne opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Can we sleep together, Edward?”

  He knew what she meant. “Yes, my darling. Like brother and sister.” And so the dethroned king of England and an ex—servant girl, lately a merchant of Brugge, stole hand in hand through the kitchen,
across the hall filled with snoring men, and up a further staircase, almost as steep as a ladder, until they found a room high beneath the red tiles of the roof.

  The little chamber smelled of apples and the straw that stored them, and there was a bed. Not wide and not long, but deep and soft enough with its wool-stuffed ticking mattress so they could sleep together in perfect peace, with Edward’s fur-lined cloak for covering. And sleep they did, wrapped warm and tight in each other’s arms like two children. Tomorrow was another day, and they would think about that then.

  “Husband, is there any news? Jassy told me a man had come.”

  Mathew Cuttifer looked up wearily as his wife entered his workroom. He was standing at his table before a stacked pile of ledgers, a branch of candles providing uncertain light. Too restless to sit as he worked, he was exhausted past all counting. He’d not slept for three days—could not, for formless terrors stalked him when he closed his eyes—and his whey-pale face told its own story.

  “No, wife. Nothing of consequence. News from our northern lands. All seems well there with my daughter and her husband, praise God. Nothing from Leif.”

  Margaret went swiftly to her husband and picked up one of his hands. “Dearest Mathew, you’re doing all you can.”

  The merest glimmer of a smile stretched his mouth. “Ah, but is it enough? All we know is that Leif has disappeared, and the Lady Margaret with him. Privateers, perhaps? Who can tell.”

  His wife nodded soberly. “Come, sit with me.” She held out her arms and, with a sigh, he followed her obediently to a bench beside the hearth. The fire was banked low, the ashes a white heap with a red heart providing an illusion of heat. Margaret shivered; in truth, the place was tomb-cold.