The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “You have a rival.”

  Elizabeth Wydeville hissed through closed teeth, as a cat does before it strikes. “Tell me what I do not know. I begin to think you have no power at all.”

  The queen sneered as she spoke but her voice shook. The woman she had summoned seemed not to hear; she was focused on her scrying bowl, nodding gently as if listening to voices from far, far away. Elizabeth, against her inclinations, was fascinated. It was not often, in these days, that she met people who were unafraid of their queen.

  “Why do you need that thing?”

  The girl smiled sweetly and raised her face. She was blind and had been from birth; milk-white eyes turned toward the sound of the queen’s voice. Elizabeth shivered in distaste.

  “Perhaps I see differently, Lady Queen. The bowl is useful. I can smell the light it sends me.”

  “Smell the light? Nonsense! Light has no smell.”

  The girl, Lilliana, shook her head. “To me it does. And when I do this, what I smell gives me answers to my questions.” The blind girl cupped her hands around the precious glass bowl. It was very old. The queen had never seen another like it. Delicate and pale blue-green, the surface of the glass was clouded as if it had lain in the sea, or a river, through aeons of time. As indeed it had. Miraculously, it was entirely whole.

  Elizabeth Wydeville, superstitious as she was, had no patience for time-wasting blandishments. She needed information and she’d been told this woman was as good as a sibyl. “Tell me more. Describe this woman.” The queen sat back in her cathedra. This would be a test. If the girl passed it, she might believe what else she said.

  “Since these eyes of mine have never seen as yours do, my descriptions may be strange to you, Lady Queen. But I shall do what I can.” Silence filled the little room. It was so quiet, the queen heard the whisper of her own blood. It was uncanny. Unsettling. Then…

  “Do you hear that?”

  Elizabeth jumped in her chair as the blind eyes settled on her own. The whispering grew louder; they could both hear it now. Water, not blood; rushing, falling from a height. There it was again: insistent, tumbling, a gathering roar.

  The queen’s mouth was dry. She forced her lips to form words. “Water? Why do I hear water?”

  Lilliana held up her hand, listening intently, and when she spoke she raised her voice against the sound. “There is a waterfall. Bright, shining. And there is bronze… something bronze, glinting in the sun. A kingfisher flies. An eagle flies beside it. There is another eagle… it attacks the kingfisher; the eagles are fighting. And now there is a peregrine. She flies at the kingfisher while the eagles are distracted.”

  The queen sat back with flint-hard eyes but one shaking hand held the other tight. “You speak in riddles.”

  The blind girl shook her head. “No. It is clear to me and, I think, to you.” She cupped the glass bowl in her hands, clouded eyes gazing down on the clear water it contained. “Hair the color of bronze and eyes like bright feathers, like jewels. Blue jewels, green jewels. You are nothing alike, Queen. But her rights are as strong as yours.”

  Elizabeth Wydeville was lost between rage and fear. “You speak of rights, but she has none. None!”

  “But if the truth was known, the people would feel differently. She has lost so much…”

  “And what of my losses? My husband in exile and me fleeing to sanctuary? Never knowing if he would return or if I, and my new son, my daughters, would be murdered as we slept! Did I not suffer loss as she did?”

  The girl glanced at the queen. “All that is yours has been returned. You remain the queen. That is what you want most. She, your rival, has given that up, willingly, for the good of the child, and the man.” The blind girl shook her head. “She lost everything that should have been given; now she has regained some of what was hers. Perhaps it will be enough. And yet, if she chooses to stretch out her hand…”

  Elizabeth choked; hammering fury burned her chest. “If you mean my husband would marry this whore…?”

  Lilliana, unperturbed, shook her head. “No whore, and not while you live. That tears at them both.”

  The queen crossed herself with slashing movements. It never worked, this endless, restless search for answers to the questions that tormented her. “Take your fee. I will not keep money that has been besmirched by such malicious lies.”

  Cruelly she threw her coins onto the tabletop, where they bounced and scattered across the wooden surface; several rolled to the floor, where they skipped, spinning, into the corners of the room. The girl made no move to scrabble for them.

  “Keep the money, lady. Give it to the poor at your gates. I accept no payment for this gift—it is not mine to make money from.” The girl turned her head this way and that, seeking to sense where the queen was. It was unnerving and eerie. “I do not understand everything I say but I know that I speak the truth. I am sorry if this offends you but it is the only obligation I have for what has been given to me.”

  Lilliana slumped back in her seat. She was exhausted, sweating and pale as the limed walls. White skin, white eyes, white headscarf. Perhaps she was an effigy made from snow? An effigy that would melt, leaving only a pool on the stone floor. The queen shook away the thought as she hurried to the door, turning her back without a further word. But as Elizabeth lifted the latch, Lilliana spoke once more.

  “The king has a friend who is not his friend, not in all things. He should beware the man who comes out of the dark. The dark that he made.”

  The queen paused for one moment more, questions clamoring to be answered, but as she turned back to demand information, she saw that the room was empty, even though there was just one way in and one way out: the doorway in which she was standing. Nothing else was there. No bowl, no table. No girl.

  But there was a pool of still water on the floor. It shone white, reflecting the color of the walls.

  And Elizabeth Wydeville, the Queen of England, woke.

  Screaming.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Two nights later and the weather changed. Herrard Great Hall was buffeted, suddenly, with wind. Shutters banged all over the building as the gusts built and built, until a storm broke with the sound of an invading army. Little Edward woke in his truckle bed and shivered with terror; most frightening was an echoing crash that came and went. Storm giants!

  The lightning flashed and flooded the room with white light. Outside, in the inner ward, his oak tree groaned and creaked. Thunder pealed directly above and the child screamed.

  “Wissy! Where are you, Wissy?”

  He yelled with all his strength, but no one came. For a moment, he huddled under the blankets, but then it happened again: a crashing noise in the distance. The giants were breaking in! He must save Wissy! Edward tumbled from his bed and ran across a space that was instantly vast in the dark and the light and the dark. He stumbled toward one of the three doors and, heart hammering in his chest, sobbing, struggled to lift the iron latch that was nearly above his head, stretching his toes to reach it until the bones seemed to crack.

  Twice more white light broke the darkness, twice more the hammers of the storm beat down on the roof, but that terror helped him trip the latch and he was through the door at a run, calling frantically, “Where are you? Where are you, Wissy!”

  This night, the familiar was suddenly strange. In the daylight it was easy to find the twisting stair that descended to the hall. Night was different and there were no torches to show him the way. He ran, ran on, through the flashing darkness, through the rain gusting from the arrow slits and, at last, at last, his feet found the first tread of the stairs. But there was darkness in the stairwell and suddenly the certainty was overwhelming. They’d gone, they’d all gone to London and left him here. The crashing began again—the giants were coming closer. Edward screamed and covered his eyes with his fingers.

  Below, there was chaos and noise in the great space of the hall as rain blew through the opened door, ripping the one piece of arras Anne still
owned from its hooks. Struggling with its weight and the power of the storm, Anne felt her skirt lift and billow as she tried to close the door behind the cloaked and dripping man who’d been pounding on it.

  “Leif!”

  “Yes, lady. Here, I can do this.” It was a big door and a huge wind but Leif leaned into them both. The door closed on the howling night and there was almost silence.

  “Wissy? Where are you?”

  The cry of her child struck Anne’s heart. Snatching a torch from one of the sconces, she ran toward the stone staircase. Questions could wait.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she soon found her son. He was slumped, a small shivering bundle, on one of the stair turnings, and though he was trying not to cry, his little pale face and terrified eyes told the story. Shoving her torch in a sconce, Anne stumbled on her skirts in her haste to gather the small body into her arms.

  “I was trying to save you but I thought you’d gone. I thought you’d left me alone.” Frantic, Edward hid his face in the bodice of Anne’s gown when the thunder pealed again. “Make it go! Make it go away!”

  A massive shadow wavered up from below, the head a grotesque blob followed by a huge, dark shape. Edward looked up and screamed, “The giant!” The turning of the stair had hidden Leif Molnar from sight; now the light he held preceded him. A flash from the storm captured the child’s fixed, staring eyes. For one moment he looked like a corpse, dead from terror.

  “Is the boy…?” Leif’s heart lurched. He would not say the word.

  “No! He just hates storms.”

  Edward burrowed more tightly into Anne’s shoulder. She chose to ignore what she saw in Leif’s eyes as she rocked her son, speaking softly. “There’s nothing to fear, my darling, nothing to harm you.” Distantly, the sky muttered, the thunder moving away. “See, it’s nearly gone, and we have a visitor. Your friend, Leif.”

  The little boy spoke, not daring to look up. “Not a storm giant?”

  The Norseman went down on one knee; his head was level with the child’s. “Have you forgotten me, Edward? That would make me sad.”

  Little Edward sat up slowly and looked at the man in awe. “Are you a giant, Leif? You look like a giant.”

  The Norseman shook his head, smiling, but his gaze was fixed on the woman. “Give me this boy, woman. There are things we must speak of. It is time for him to understand the thunder, and his own fear.”

  Leif handed his torch to Anne and opened his arms to the child. Edward allowed himself to be scooped up and Anne walked down behind them. The two torches she carried cast the shadows of the man and the boy into the hall before them.

  And Deborah was there, waiting, as the fire climbed high in the chimney and the flames rushed up to meet the dark night sky.

  It was late and little Edward was sleepy, resting against Leif’s chest. There was a story, a long, long story, and he was at peace.

  “Thor commands the thunder, Boy. And the storm. They are both his servants. You have nothing to fear because Thor watches over me, and since I watch over you, therefore he is your guardian also.”

  That made Edward’s heavy eyes flick open. “But you said he was a war god?”

  Leif shifted the child’s weight slightly, settled him in the crook of one great arm and drew a fold of his cloak around the little body. “That is true. But I am a fighter; so, too, are you.”

  Edward chuckled. “A fighter? Me?”

  Leif nodded gravely. “Certainly. You showed courage tonight. A coward would have stayed in bed, under the sheets, but you were brave. You faced the storm to help your aunt. As a fighter, all you need is technique. It will be my job to help with that. When you are grown, you will be taller and stronger than I am.”

  Edward’s eyes were wide open now. He laughed—a bright sound in the dark hall. “But you are a storm giant!”

  Leif laughed too. “Even so. Now, I was telling you about the thunder. When you hear it sound and see the sky torn apart, well then, you know your guardian is close by. So that even if I am not here with you, you know you are protected. Storm and thunder are the God’s preserve. Mortals cannot control that: not your mother, and not me.”

  Edward’s eyes fluttered closed, feathery lashes resting on his cheeks. “My mother?” The little boy yawned hugely. “I’ve never seen my mother. She died.”

  Leif’s glance crossed Anne’s as she sat embroidering by candlelight. She saw him form the words, saw him say them, though no sound came from his mouth to disturb the drowsy child. “No. Your mother lives.”

  There was space between them, four paces at most; space they could cross, if they chose to.

  But Anne dropped her gaze, attentive to her sewing, and he, after a moment, wrapped the boy more tightly and stood, ready to carry the sleeping child up to his bed again. And they said not one word more that night.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  “Why did you come?”

  The Norseman shrugged. “You needed me. You need someone to look out for your interests here.”

  “But your work for Sir Mathew…?”

  “You are his concern also. Sir Mathew wants me here.” Leif yearned to say, “Do you?” But something stopped him. Confidence; he’d never been confident with women.

  Anne, well aware of what he had not said, picked another quince. She and Leif were in the neglected orchard outside the walls of the Hall, gathering fruit into reed baskets. This hot, early summer had nearly broken the boughs with ripe fruit already, the season forced by more than a month. Apples, peaches, quince, medlars; Deborah and Anne would soon be busy preserving and drying—if Anne chose to stay.

  Climbing down from the tree as Leif held the ladder steady, Anne loosened the straps that held the basket on her back. He lifted the weight from her and she sighed with relief, flexing cramped shoulders; she felt real satisfaction as she looked at their progress.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six… I believe we have near twenty baskets filled, Leif. And we’ve hardly touched the trees at the back. All those apples yet to be picked—what a thought.”

  She was laughing; once she’d thought nothing of such hard physical work, but her muscles were protesting today. And her throat was very dry. Leif smiled and held out a leather flask.

  “Here. Drink.”

  The deep green grass beneath the oldest of the pear trees was inviting, it was true, but there was so much to do. Fortuna and her bull calf would do well on such fodder—grass and windfalls; she must remember to mention it to Deborah.

  “Anne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stop thinking. Sit. The fruit won’t go away. We’ve still got hours of light today.”

  She smiled at Leif and sat down beside him. He was a kind companion and friend and, he was right, of course: she needed his help. In so many things.

  Closing her eyes against the hot light, she swallowed heartily from the offered flask; their own ale, the first they’d brewed in this place. Thirst made it taste like nectar. Wiping her hand across her mouth, she handed him the bottle. “Do you have advice for me, Leif?”

  For a moment he too drank and she watched his strong, brown throat as it worked.

  “This is good, lady. You have the touch. With ale at least.” He smiled and so did she, but he had not answered the question.

  To cover the moment, Anne removed one of Deborah’s pies from its linen wrapping. It was big enough for several men. “Are you hungry?” She’d asked him the wrong question and she blushed. What had possessed her? She knew what his answer, his true answer, would be.

  With a wicked smile, Leif reached across her body for the large wedge she’d cut. “Of course.” They were sitting very close, close enough for her to smell the fresh sweat of him. “I’m always hungry.”

  Anne dropped her eyes as she cut a piece of the pie for herself; she was confused by her feelings for this man and talking only made it worse. She cleared her throat and spoke, unnecessarily loud, in the humming, buzzing warmth of the orchard. “So, you will
not give me guidance?”

  Leif shook his head, chewing slowly, his eyes on her face. “You wouldn’t accept what I’d say, lady.”

  She flashed him a glance. “That’s not fair. How can you know that?”

  He smiled and took another bite of the pie. “I know you, lady.”

  Anne had no reply. She brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood, untying her hair kerchief to mop her hot face. There was a small stream at the edge of the orchard, one of the reasons the trees had been placed where they were. Water close by meant good fruit.

  “Give me the flask, if you’ve finished the ale. I’ll fill it with water.”

  Leif smiled lazily as he held the leather bottle up to Anne. She leaned down to grasp it but then, as her fingers touched it, he jerked it away. Trying to catch it, she unbalanced and tumbled down, across his lap. “So, lady, would you like me to tell you the truth?”

  Now she really was confused, and breathless, her torso across his, her breasts against his body.

  “That’s really not fair, Leif.”

  He caught her hands as she wriggled, trying to twist away from him. She was breathing fast, so was he.

  “Let me go.”

  “Only if you hear me out.”

  She was fit and strong but he was much more than her match, holding her effortlessly, relentlessly tighter.

  “Say yes, Anne.”

  “To what?” Her heart was jolting now, but there was no fear.

  “To the truth.” And then, just because he could, he kissed her.

  She wasn’t shocked, but she was rocked by the impact of him as his lips touched hers. He relaxed as he kissed her, so, without thought, she freed one hand and hit him hard in the chest. “No!”

  He laughed. “Yes!” And kissed her again, catching the errant hand easily. Her world buzzing, light colliding with dark, she kissed him back. And in that moment, when all the certainties of her world were shaken to the core, Anne de Bohun made up her mind. She had to go to London. She had to know.