The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Anne? Anne, you must come down. Immediately. We have a visitor.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The duchess of Burgundy was spoken of as having “the common touch,” and it was true. It had never been better employed, this gift of making all she met feel important, than sitting today in the parlor of Anne’s farmhouse, waiting for her brother and her hostess to make their appearance.

  “This is delicious, Dame Lisotte! These curds have the consistency of cream. Yet so light and agreeable. And such a pleasing flavor. What can it be?”

  Deborah had deputized the cook to wait on the duchess with anything that could be conjured up from the kitchen or the stores, while Anne was searched for. And the king.

  “We make them ourselves, Your Grace, from the milk of our own cows. I flavor them with candied elderflowers from the bushes in the kitchen garden. My mistress is fond of them.”

  “And that is God’s good truth, Your Grace!”

  Anne entered the parlor, a picture of neat composure. Her high-waisted dress of violet velvet—the sleeves lined with green damask of a shade between moss and dark emerald—glimmered with muted splendor in the winter light.

  “Your pardon that I was not here to greet you. I was still being dressed.”

  “And I, dear sister. I was also. Being dressed, that is.”

  All three women in the room curtsied as Edward Plantagenet strolled into the parlor. For a moment, his eyes brushed Anne’s. Raised brows asked the question: “How did you change and get here before me?” She smiled demurely, dropped her eyes from his, as was proper, and watched with delight as Margaret and her brother embraced tenderly.

  “Ah, dearest sister, you have bloomed in your marriage. That gives me great joy.”

  “And joy has been my lot, Your Majesty.” The duchess made a punctiliously deep court curtsy.

  “Such formality for your long-lost brother? No. You can address me as a king when I have earned the title once more.” However, matching her in ceremony, Edward bowed to his sister, motioned that she should sit, and sat beside her on a settle near the fire. Deborah, Lisotte, and Anne remained standing. It was expected.

  Edward smiled at Anne. “This lady, Your Grace, has been my kind friend. And savior. She found me and delivered your most generous message with its welcome inclusion that I should come here to you, to Brugge. And so we did, once Lady Anne was recovered.”

  Margaret glanced at her friend and back at Edward. “Recovered, brother?”

  Anne blushed and carefully inspected the toes of her embroidered velvet slippers. Pain shadowed Edward’s face for a moment. “Yes. I ran the Lady Anne down with my horse and she nearly died.”

  Margaret did not know how to respond. In the small, embarrassed silence, Anne signaled for Deborah and Lisotte to leave the parlor. “I have a strong constitution, Your Grace,” she said. “And it was an accident. Perhaps it was God’s will”—all three crossed themselves automatically—“that we should meet again in that way.”

  Margaret held her hand out to Anne. “Sit here beside us, Lady Anne. You must have had a long and very cold ride. Louis de Gruuthuse, good man that he is, has sent me personal dispatches, just very recently arrived, telling me of your… departure. He did not tell me, however, of the accident.”

  “But the question now, Your Grace, is will the duke, your husband, consent to see the king?” Anne asked the question for Edward. Perhaps it was best to confront the unspoken issue. She hoped so.

  Margaret looked uncomfortable, and was prevented from answering by a soft knock at the door.

  “Come.” Anne’s tone was sharp, which was unlike her, and Deborah shot the girl a worried look as she edged into the room, followed by Lisotte. Both women were burdened with food: good bread; white cheeses; little cakes stuffed with currants, the pastry yellow with saffron; preserved plums and quince in honey syrup. There was enough for a platoon of hungry archers, let alone three people who had no appetite, knowing what they did. After the two women had departed, Margaret spoke calmly, hiding her anxiety well. “My husband, the duke—your brother-in-law and friend,” she said, careful to emphasize the relationship between Edward and Charles as it gave her confidence, “is very worried indeed about Louis de Valois. But, I am certain that the duke does want to see you.”

  Edward was pacing the small space of the parlor. He stopped and faced his sister.

  “He does, brother, he truly does, but the timing must be right. You can understand that?”

  Edward’s nose was so pinched from rapid breathing that the bridge was a sharp white line in his face. “I have heard of nothing but the importance of the ‘timing’ of our meeting for this long month past. But Charles is foolish, Margaret. Every day’s delay now is a day longer I am out of my kingdom. He needs me strong, in Westminster, and with an army around my throne if he intends his duchy to survive against Louis de Valois.”

  This was too much for Margaret; she too stood, anguished. “I know that. And I have told him so many, many times. Sometimes he agrees with me, and sometimes…”

  Edward finished the sentence for her. “And sometimes he wonders if he is better to make peace with Louis, once and for all. Accept that he is the weaker, that he will never rule as a king of his own country. He must be very fearful indeed since he is behaving in this cowardly fashion.”

  “Weak? It is not fear or weakness that drives him!” Margaret was stung. “He is a brave man. You know that.” Edward had turned away from her and she addressed his back. “He is not a coward. He is just trying to understand what is best for his people. And best for you.”

  That nettled Edward. He swung back and glared at Margaret. “No man may think on what is best for the king of England but the king himself!”

  The Plantagenet temper was in both of them, brother and sister; when fighting as children, each had been accustomed to battle without grant or expectation of quarter. The gathering storm was tangible as thunder in the room. Anne stood abruptly, her physical presence holding brother and sister apart.

  “Please, Your Majesty, listen to your sister, the duchess. She loves you dearly.”

  Edward snorted.

  Anne turned to Margaret. “Duchess, your brother is exhausted and if he is not fearful of the future, I am. There will be a way through this, and we’ll find it, but let us please break bread together now. I’m hungry, and it will help us all to eat something.” Her voice rose from nerves at the end of this little speech. It took courage to stand between warring Plantagenets.

  Unexpectedly, Margaret dissolved into giggles. “What do you say, brother? Will you eat? It may help your temper!” This last was said defiantly, but it was a sister talking to her brother, not a duchess to a king.

  “Amen to that, sister. And may these preserves sweeten your mood also.”

  When Edward grinned, it was still possible to see the boy he’d been, the spirit of mischief incarnate, blond hair flopping over his forehead, hands and feet too big for a soon-to-be-massive frame, all lopsided grin and scraped knees. Now, standing beside his formidable sibling, Anne was moved almost to tears. The Plantagenets might be descendants of the Devil or his wife, Melusine, but their ancestor must have been most handsome. And then she remembered. If Edward and his sister were descended from the Devil, then she was too. She was a Plantagenet also.

  A certain light kindled in the eye of Lady Anne de Bohun as she heaped white curd cheese onto a heel of bread, then licked her fingers, unladylike. “Therefore, how do we convince the duke that he must meet with Your Majesty?”

  Edward’s eyebrows rose. Anne had always been deferential to him whenever they were with others; now she was not exactly impertinent, but she was confident. Margaret noticed it too and flashed a quizzical glance at her brother.

  The king made a mild inquiry. “Does the duke still hunt?”

  The duchess was trying not to dip the edges of her veil into the syrup of the preserved quince as she leaned over the table laden with food. She answered, distracted, �
��Certainly he does, when he has time,” and licked her fingers also, with a smile to Anne, since the juice was so delicious.

  Anne sat on the settle, gazing steadily first at the king and then at the duchess. She smiled. “This is cheering news, Duchess. To hunt well is a noble pursuit.”

  Edward cracked a walnut in one powerful hand and scrupulously divided the meat between Margaret and Anne. “And I have always liked the chase,” he said, grinning.

  The duchess spoke slowly. “Hunting is well known to be dangerous, brother. Very dangerous, sometimes.”

  Edward nodded. “I agree, sweet sister. But that’s the challenge, isn’t it?”

  A hunting party? No stags, no boar; Edward Plantagenet was hunting the throne of England.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Plague-monger! Poisoner! Aaaaaaaaaargh!” The spurred hunting boot flew through the air and found its mark, painfully: the bowed head of Louis’s terrified chief valet, Alaunce Levaux. “I trusted you and this is how you serve me!”

  Poor Alaunce: damned if he tried to explain, and condemned, assuredly, if he did not. “Your Majesty is always most just, however—” That was as far as he got.

  “Don’t you dare ‘however’ me!” The other boot followed its partner. This time the spur sliced Levaux’s ear and blood dripped onto the neckband of his shirt.

  “They’ve been poisoned! Look! See here, there must be noxious matter on the leather.”

  Some orders a man obeyed; some he did not. Alaunce knew that if he raised his head even a little, something else would be thrown at him. Unfortunately the king, so unhandy at most physical things, had a very strong throwing arm. An accurate, strong throwing arm.

  Alaunce contrived to wriggle toward the chair in which the king sat, agitatedly waving his lower legs for his valet’s inspection. Louis’s face was slick with sweat and there was such a hot and violent look in his eyes that, when Levaux allowed himself to glance upward, he was profoundly disturbed. The man inched closer, close enough to peer forward without raising his head and once there, saw why the king was so agitated.

  The calves and shins of Louis de Valois, monarch of all the French, were a mass of weeping sores, the surface of the skin marked by huge purpled bruises and the toes of each foot swollen into fat, violet sausages. Whatever it was, the affliction looked most painful. Alaunce was so surprised he forgot to be afraid. He sat up and inspected the nether limbs of the king with keen attention. “Fleas, Your Majesty? Suppurating flea bites?” He knew it sounded weak, but it was all he could think of.

  “Fleas? Fleas! These are not flea bites—unless fleas have turned to pigeons and grown teeth. Look, man! These are holes in my legs. Holes! It’s happened today; this morning. What could cause this so quickly but poisoned boots? AND YOU ARE THE KEEPER OF MY BOOTS!” For a man of indifferent height and narrow chest, the king could roar like a bull when he chose to and, for a moment, the sheer volume of sound, delivered so close to the valet’s ear, destroyed all chance of rational thought.

  Louis was correct: Levaux was the keeper of the king’s boots, among other things, and he slept across the doorway of the king’s sleeping-room. No one entered or left without his knowledge. And during the day, the room was locked with a key—the only key—that he personally carried.

  This was all so perplexing. The day had begun in normal fashion.

  After mass, and the late-morning dinner, Louis had gone hunting in his favorite boots, boots that had been placed on his legs, as was usual, by Levaux. The valet could swear to the irreproachable sanctity of those boots, yet, if the king was right, who could have sabotaged them, if sabotaged they had been? When could they have been sabotaged?

  “Winter is a difficult season, Your Majesty. Could it be distemper of the legs, or an ague which has infected the humors so causing the swellings?”

  “How would I know? Am I a doctor?”

  A doctor. Yes! That was the way through this mess. Someone else to blame. So thought Alaunce, cowering on the stone flags before the malodorous, swollen feet of the king. “Shall I summon your personal physician, Lord King?”

  Terror struck Louis de Valois. A doctor? “No! Or I will assuredly die! I’ll not have them near me with their cupping and potions and poisons! I’ve seen them. Perfectly well people sicken and die. But not me! Oh ho, not me. I want a herbalist. A good man who is not of my court. Find me such a one, but tell no one. I will not have it whispered about that the king has been poisoned. That would be a disaster for France. Go. NOW!”

  “At once, Your Majesty. Immediately.”

  On his belly, like a lizard or a snake, Alaunce Levaux crept backward from the king’s presence, almost dribbling with relief.

  “Stop!” The valet froze. It had been too easy. His heart suddenly filled the entire cavity of his chest, swelling to pump blood to his legs so that he could run, when that was needed.

  “Bar this door when you leave here. No one, no one at all, is to enter until you return. Hurry! I am racked and burning!”

  The king groaned as he said the words and Levaux dared not reply; he did not trust himself to speak in case he pissed his breeches from fear. But outside the doors of the king’s chambers, he scrambled to his feet and brushed the dust and filth off the front of his black jerkin. Hurriedly, after exhorting the guards to prevent all access, he barred the door himself—all the rooms in Louis’s private domain could be barred or locked from the inside and the outside—and left the suite of royal rooms at a hobbling run.

  He knew of just such a man for the king’s needs: a Dominican monk who worked with the very poorest in the city of Paris, prescribing only simples and herbs to remedy their afflictions. It was said he was a holy man. A man to whom money meant nothing. He was English, and had a strange Greek name. Brother Agonistes, was that it? Yes. Perhaps the monk would know if the boots had been poisoned or if something else was troubling the king’s humors. Please God, let the monk know what should be done, for what would happen if the king died of this new ailment? What would happen to France? Louis was not loved as a king, but he was powerful—and feared. If he died, it would convulse the kingdom; convulse all Europe. Levaux shivered. He didn’t pay much attention to politics in the broadest sense, however he did attend to gossip in the palace. And gossip said that Louis was close to overstretching the resources of France in his support of the English earl of Warwick. Gossip also said that the duke of Burgundy was pitiless, and poised to invade France if he did not get his way in the Low Countries.

  The skin on Alaunce Levaux’s back tingled and stung as he hobbled on through the busy palace, which was convulsed by preparations for the Christ-mass revels. Please God, let it not be a premonition of the whip. He did not like his master, naturally—how could one like a king?—but he understood him. Louis’s father had treated him badly as a boy, and constantly undermined his authority as dauphin when he was older. The nobles, too, had all laughed at Louis, since he had been ill-favored and weak as a child and had grown into an ugly young man. No one had expected the wizened runt to live, much less to rule. But he had, and he did, and that was the way of it.

  Born to trouble, both of them: this king and his kingdom. But the English and the Burgundians? They would be worse, far, far worse. It was his duty: he, Alaunce Levaux, must save the king for France, or there would be anarchy and destruction.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Damnation to him. Perdition. Destruction!” It was a measured chant, punctuated by the work of the little dagger. Once, twice, three times, and once more the silver tip pierced the legs of the doll, joining the legion of little holes already there. But the last thrust was so deep, most of the wood-dust trickled out, leaving one of the legs a little empty, flopping bag.

  “Daughter? What are you doing?”

  Elizabeth wheeled around, the doll that was the representation of Louis de Valois clamped to her chest. “Hush! Be quiet, Mother. They will hear you.”

  Hurriedly, the Duchess Jacquetta hauled the door of the Jerusalem
chamber closed behind her. It was heavy and had warped in the wet, cold weather and would not obey her easily; a symptom of so much else in her life. “We must be careful! If you were caught at this, if you were seen, then…”

  Elizabeth’s eyes glittered in the gloom; the watery green light from the thick glass in the windows lent her skin a corpselike pallor. “I will stop when he is dead, Mother. It is all I can do. Or you, for that matter. You have taught me willingly enough.”

  “No! This is too public. Thomas Milling will not shelter you, or me, if he thinks that we are—”

  The queen’s blue eyes narrowed as she locked glances with her mother. Sometimes the likeness between them was startling. “What, Mother? Witches? Involved in the black arts?” Elizabeth Wydeville laughed, a genuine melodious peal from deep within her chest. “The abbot is not so worldly to even think such a thing. Why should he? He says mass for us often enough. In his mind, we are two pious ladies in dire circumstances, in need of God’s saving grace. And he’s right. Besides, your little toy”—Elizabeth brandished the doll; its arms and legs were limp and lolled pathetically this way and that—“is just a plaything. It has no power. We just like to pretend it does.”

  The queen sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands. She had spoken the truth and it was too much to bear, too painful. How childlike to pretend that she could harm the mighty king of the French by pricking a doll stuffed with dust from a sawyer’s pit. Pathetic! A game, a fantasy. And her mother was right: it was foolish to flaunt such a thing in the abbot’s parlor.

  Jacquetta dropped a hand to her daughter’s shoulder hesitantly. Physical contact between mother and daughter was rare. Unexpectedly, Elizabeth covered her mother’s hand with her own. That encouraged the duchess.

  “It has served its purpose. Give it to me, child. Can’t have them burning you before me.”

  There was a certain grim humor in the exchange. In happier times, mother and daughter had laughed about Jacquetta’s reputation at court. Persistent gossip whispered the duchess had taught Elizabeth how to bewitch the king, since there could be no other reasonable explanation for his behavior in marrying a woman five years his senior and the widow of a Lancastrian knight, burdened with two small sons. Sighing, the queen held the half-stuffed facsimile of Louis de Valois close to her eyes and gazed into its painted face. “Good-bye, Lord King. May you not fare well.”