The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “And yet, while I was immured at s’Gravenhague with de Gruuthuse—on your instructions, I think—I heard plentiful, well-sourced rumors that you were actually helping Warwick subdue my kingdom?” Edward was politely icy but now it was said, out in the open.

  Charles got to his feet and threw the lees of his wine into the fire, where they hissed like a cat. He did not immediately answer, refilling his beaker from a jug that was warming by the open hearth.

  “Well?” Edward was implacable and Charles turned to face those merciless eyes.

  “A blind, brother. Merely a ruse. I did not give them much by way of aid, and it was only to buy myself time.”

  Edward snorted. “Some might give it another name than ‘blind,’ brother.”

  Charles was caught by his own uncertainty. It was true: for some months he had been playing both ends against the middle, but, in the end, he’d been honest. What he wanted and needed was time; time to see the real shape of the situation as it developed now that Warwick held England for the Lancastrians, and time to rebuild his own armies against the certainty that, eventually, he would have to declare his hand and fight for his domains against whichever enemy declared itself first—France or England. Or, indeed, both together.

  “You ask much, Edward. Too much. I must think of my own country first.”

  “Your country? What country? You’re not a king yet, Charles, and you never will be unless I can take back England and help you against Louis. You are a fool to place any faith in Warwick. How long do you think he’ll last once Margaret of Anjou actually gets back into London? She’ll sack the place and buy his destruction with what she loots there. Then Louis will turn on you, with her help, and the full weight of England will be behind them both. You are willfully blind!”

  The two men were on their feet and dangerously close to the fire as they stared at each other, unblinking, two mastiffs each looking for the first opening, the first weakening, of his opponent.

  Charles’s voice shook with rage. “By God’s entrails, Edward Plantagenet, I have but to call and men would take you from here for all your brave words. You cannot fight from a prison cell.”

  The hair on Edward’s nape was stiff and he could feel his scalp move as, wheat blond in the light from the fire, the hair on his head stood up. Suddenly he looked even more massive, more bulky, than before and the room was filled with the ozone of danger. Primeval fear shook Charles to his bowels, though he would not acknowledge it, even to himself.

  Edward’s voice was level, but only just, as he spoke, eyes boring into the duke’s. “Do not think to do this, Charles. God will punish you. I am an anointed king. You are not.”

  Charles blinked and dropped his glance. He did not mean to—he was a brave man, many, many times proved in battle—but the roiling fire in Edward’s eyes filled him with superstitious dread. Edward Plantagenet might be the deposed king of his country and a usurper at that, yet, yes, he was still an anointed king. And he was filled with utter certainty. Perhaps kings understood their holy office better than did mere dukes.

  Annoyed and humiliated by his confusion, Charles wiped a hand across his eyes, as if to physically brush truth away like an annoying insect. “It remains, however, that you are, officially, without support. And whatever happens in the future, for now Louis must go on thinking that. I cannot be seen to give you aid. Not now, not at this moment. It is not the right time to make best advantage.”

  “Time has all but run its course in this matter, Charles.”

  The duke was drained, unutterably weary. He had been dreading this interview, had even thought of riding away, out of Brugge, to join his troops massing on the southern borders where Burgundy marched with France, anything to avoid meeting Edward. But, in the end, curiosity and the last torn fragments of compassion had made him agree to this meeting. These things, and his marriage. Margaret was dear to him, and Edward had been his friend; was, strangely, his friend yet.

  The duke sighed and leaned over to pour red wine into Edward’s empty beaker before refilling his own. “I cannot agree, my friend. It is hard to see the future, very hard. What my heart says and what my head says are two different things. And we must hold our nerve in this. Together.”

  Edward said nothing, but held out his full beaker and the duke, reluctantly, touched it with his own.

  “The future? I can help you with that, brother. I always have, I always will.” Edward smiled and it was unexpectedly sweet. Charles could not help himself; he smiled in return. He’d known Edward since he was a boy, and that counted for something even in these fraught times.

  The talk continued as long as the night lasted; the king and the duke wrangling and arguing back and forth, seeking a solution to their opposing needs. They spoke freely, believing themselves alone. But they were not.

  Philippe de Commynes heard each word that was spoken as he sat in a spy-perch, high up in the shadows among the beams supporting the pitch of the roof. He alone knew of its existence and it had proved most useful—especially lately. Especially tonight. After hunting, when men sat drinking, Philippe would sometimes excuse himself for bed, only to climb up beneath the tiles of the roof and crawl on his belly along the narrow plankway among the roof timbers, created so that the structure could be inspected from time to time. There he would lie and listen to what was said far below him by the duke and his closest companions as they fell deeper and deeper into their cups. Later, he would write down all that he had heard.

  It was here that he’d understood the contempt in which the duke held him—his own cousin—and heard the laughter that erupted every time they called him Boothead; an experience that had curdled his heart, and his loyalty.

  Tonight, as he looked down coldly upon a deposed king and an aspirant king, Philippe de Commynes knew that the wheel of fortune had turned and he was riding up. Yes, tonight was most fortunate for him, and even more so for Louis de Valois. For if he had saved the French king’s life once, how much more grateful would Louis be when Philippe saved his kingdom?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “How much is the kingdom worth to you, Edward?” Anne had spent the night in the kitchen of the hunting lodge. At first she’d waited for the men to finish talking so that she and Edward could return to her farm, but in the end she’d gone to sleep, head on her arms on the trestle table, and awoken there stiff and cold when Edward roused her at dawn. She and the silent king were riding back toward Riverstead Farm in the first light, and she could see Edward was brooding on his thoughts.

  “Any price I have to pay. Except you.” He glimmered a smile, making an effort to be cheerful for her sake.

  “Why?”

  “Why what? Or why you?”

  Now she too laughed, and reined in her horse so that the pretty mare snuffled a protest at such contrary directions, hands and heels, from her mistress.

  “Do you never think of refusing to pay what is asked of you?”

  Their horses were side by side on the bridle path at the river’s edge, and human and animal breath joined, smoking, in the cold morning as a winter sun struggled up from the east.

  Edward leaned over and rearranged a tendril of Anne’s hair that had escaped onto her cheek. His touch lingered. He traced the shape of her cheek, her nose, the outline of her mouth, with one gloved finger. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it.

  The king’s voice was husky when he spoke. “I’d take the glove off, but the cold is savage.”

  That made them both laugh, giddily: two sillies caught up in the nearness of each other. The horses stamped and tried to circle, impatient with the chill and being made to stand there.

  “I was serious, Edward.” She caught one of his hands and held it to her face, cradling it.

  He sighed and leaned toward her, kissing her softly on the lips; a cold kiss, but heat ignited them both.

  “I know. But I cannot answer you. I am fearful of the question.”

  They were lost together, alone in the world as it came aw
ake and, as he gazed at her and she at him, fear ebbed away. All that was left was the sound of their breathing and the restless stamping and snuffling of the horses.

  “We should return to the farm.” Anne’s mouth was dry as she spoke. Could words be a shield? Or a rope to tow the drowning to the safety of the shore?

  “The world is full of should and would, my darling. Do you love me? Do you love me enough?”

  It was an unfair question. He knew that. “How do I answer? I do not think in terms of measure or dimension, Edward.”

  The king slipped one hand out of its riding gauntlet and around her waist under her cloak as their horses stood side by side. Her body was warm, he could feel the heat through her clothes; and she smelled, faintly, of roses.

  “Enough, for me, means following your heart without thought, without restraint.”

  Anne shook her head to clear it, to resist the siren song, but she was torn. She could feel reason loosing its grip as he leaned toward her from the height of his horse and kissed the beating hollow at the base of her throat. Suddenly, he wheeled his stallion, spurred it, and was off at a canter and then a dangerous gallop, spurring down the bridle path toward the boundary stone of the farm just up ahead. But instead of turning toward the farm buildings, he rode on until a curve in the riverbank took him from her sight.

  Anne, shaken by Edward’s touch, by his smell, gathered her horse by instinct, tightened the reins, and settled herself in the saddle. Her mare, fresh from a night of rest, needed no other signal. She danced for a moment, then sprang away with such force that Anne was nearly unseated.

  It was a wild, wild ride. The rushing air whipped bright blood into Anne’s face and exhilaration made her giddy as with wine. She could see the king up ahead, his cloak flying out behind him as his horse ate the distance with its stride. But then, as she turned her head to avoid the naked branch of a tree and looked back—he was gone. Gone where?

  She hauled the mare to a quivering, dancing stop and swiveled in the saddle. There was no sign of the king or his horse. She’d come some distance past the entrance to her farm and had pulled up beside the river flats; the same river flats Deborah had acquired from the Landers family while Anne had been away. This was the land on which she would plant crocus bulbs, if fate allowed her.

  She guided her horse through a gap in the hedge into the field that was resting, unplowed, over winter. She remembered a barn had been part of the purchase from the Landerses and, yes, there it was—and there, also, was Edward’s tethered horse, peaceably cropping forage beside the small building with its red-tiled roof.

  “Edward? We must get back.” She called the words strongly but they sounded silly as soon as they were out of her mouth. She didn’t want to return to her real life. Not yet.

  “Come and see what I’ve found.” The king’s voice was muffled; he was inside the barn.

  There was a moment to decide, a moment in which she could have ridden away. Two pictures formed in her mind. In one, she was riding toward the barn, dismounting, tying the mare beside the stallion and walking inside toward the sound of his voice. In the other, she turned the mare for home, riding away, riding away from him…

  “Anne? Come and look.”

  The king’s stallion raised his head and nickered to the mare, welcoming companionship. Anne’s horse, skittish, danced forward as if the woman’s hands on the reins meant nothing. And then Edward was there, reaching for her, and Anne slipped down into his welcoming arms. She leaned against his chest, her head finding its natural resting place against his shoulder, as if she had no strength of her own to stand. Her body had made the choice.

  With an unsteady laugh he gathered her and held her so tightly, so hungrily, that she molded her body to his, the cradle of her hips a gift, an offering.

  “Come with me. See…” Holding her close, Edward brought Anne inside the barn. For a moment it was dark and then the girl’s eyes adjusted. Silver light, moving with motes of dust, flowed through ventilation holes high up beneath the eaves and it was as cold inside as out. Now Anne remembered why she’d been so glad to have the barn included on the river-land title—it was sound and excellent for storage. In this case, the barn held summer hay for the few cows they were keeping over the winter. River land always cropped well, and the sheaves of hay were deep, stacked high, and sweet-smelling even in the cold air.

  Gently, Edward turned Anne by the shoulders to face him.

  “I doubt that any man or any woman ever had a deeper, sweeter bed.” He kissed her softly. “If this is what you want.”

  She could feel the tension through his hands. His whole body was locked tight with discipline; he would not permit himself to do what he most wanted until he was sure she felt as he did. Anne closed her eyes. All that remained was smell and touch. And taste.

  As he kissed her again, her mouth opened. She did not resist anymore. Her hunger was as great as his—and he knew it.

  “Ah, thank God. This has not changed.”

  The dam broke, all restraint was gone, drowned.

  Hay beneath them, his cloak to cover them, passion to keep them warm, this man and this woman found each other again and it was familiar and strange and joyous.

  “I cannot see you! This is torture!”

  “But we can see with our fingers,” she said huskily. “Close your eyes.” He understood and did what she asked, savoring the warmth of her skin as he pulled the skirt of her riding dress away. Velvet hose were held up with garters of ribbon but, above them, her thighs were naked, butter soft and smooth. Edward’s hands were rough from riding; it almost felt like a violation to touch her, but the need was urgent.

  “Oh, but I’ve missed you.” There was hardly breath to speak as his senses rioted.

  “I saw you, all the time. In my dreams.”

  “And I you. Oh yes, I have seen you, and wanted you.” He was kissing her eyes, mouth, neck, breasts, his words muffled and frenzied, hands roaming, remembering.

  Their breath, warm and quick, smoked in the cold air of the barn, for theirs was an island of heat. Anne pushed Edward away for a moment. Her eyes searched his face, her hands held his away from her. He was strong, arms muscled by years of riding and fighting, but in her hands, for that moment, he had no strength at all.

  “I do not know what this means, Edward.” She didn’t have to say more, didn’t want to, but he understood. If they were lovers again, it might only be for now.

  “We do not have to know. The fates will decide. But you and I? Oh, my beloved, we shall be lovers all our lives. Even if we live apart.” Their minds were so close, they always had been. And now their bodies thought for them. No more words.

  With shaking fingers, Anne helped Edward unlace the points of his hose, and he, clumsy with need, fumbled the lacing of her riding habit, impatient to free her breasts.

  She was ivory and rose, the uncertain light silvering her skin; gently, caressingly, it touched the sculpture of her throat and her shoulders, the perfect answering curve of breast and hip, and suddenly this woman was sweeter to Edward Plantagenet than unclaimed land; this living girl whose breath and scent, whose texture and eyes and mouth, comprised the whole world, lifted him away from the appetites of his body and into another realm, an uncomplicated place that had no end and no beginning and was only now.

  This—he and she together—was his home and his kingdom: a place of real substance, the one he’d always instinctively sought. He had never understood what its absence meant until this moment, but with Anne cradled in his arms, skin to skin, he claimed that knowledge. Her loss had been a long-suppurating wound. It had nearly poisoned him. But now, that loss was remedied and it was glorious to be held again, to melt, to shiver, to surrender. And to heal.

  His torso was naked against her breasts—his body so hard, hers so tender—and Anne was wild within his arms. She could not hold him tightly enough, fiercely enough, her nails rending his back and shoulders as they lay deep within the straw and she pulled his body down to
hers.

  How easy it was. How easy to surrender. His thighs were between hers and the flesh and the bone of their bodies did not exist.

  “We’ve lit this fire, you and I.” She spoke between panting as he slid into her body, slow and hard. “And I want to burn, to be burned up.” He caught her lip between his teeth, then speared his tongue into her sweet mouth so that all words were stopped. She moaned and moved beneath him, catching his rhythm, meeting it, bracing her hips against his to drive him deeper into her body.

  He was spread like a crucifix upon her, arms wide, holding her wrists apart, pressing her down into the yielding straw so that the smell of the past summer’s grass was released to the air by the heat of their bodies.

  “You are mine.” Primordial need, man to woman, spoke those words.

  “I am, Gods help us.”

  It was a prayer, an invocation, with its own power as the splintering wave took them both; a wave that was heat and light and obliterating dark as two souls who had been lost found peace. And each other. Once again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Where has the duke deployed his forces?”

  Philippe de Commynes was uncomfortable and tried to hide it. Adopting the bland face of the successful courtier, he bowed deeply, mentally wriggling on this hook of his own making.

  “Your Majesty, my master the duke has given me no knowledge beyond what is contained within the dispatches you hold.”

  “Come, monsieur. Your master the duke, if he is a loyal subject of mine”—Louis fixed Philippe with a flesh-stripping glance—“cannot object to this innocent inquiry?”

  Pointedly, he handed the velvet dispatch satchel embroidered with the arms of Burgundy to le Dain, the barber, who was standing beside the Presence chair.

  Philippe cleared his throat nervously. “My master fears aggression from the English—from Earl Warwick, Your Majesty. That is well known.”