The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  The queen curtsied to Edward Plantagenet and spoke sweetly, her face a smooth, unreadable blank. “Does my husband the king want for anything?”

  Edward’s response was airy. He could be as charming as she, when required. “Nothing at all, wife. I am graced by your presence.”

  Elizabeth Wydeville curtsied again, deeper, bending her elegant head engagingly. She had picked the ground for this contest—the king’s own private working closet. A tiny room, seen by very few, it looked down on the river and was the king’s special retreat from the court. No one entered it except by invitation from the king himself. By her unannounced arrival, the queen signaled she had serious things to say. “Well then, that is excellent news. I have been so concerned for Your Majesty.”

  It had to come, of course, the meeting he had dreaded. This was just preliminary fencing between well-matched opponents. “Concerned? There is no need, my dear.”

  The king took the queen by the hand, conducting Elizabeth to a delicately gilded stool in the shape of an X, the only other seat in the room besides his own carved working chair. Graciously, the queen sat as he indicated and bestowed the folds of her gown to maximum decorative advantage. She was wearing pale pink velvet and cloth of silver today, a ravishing combination with white-blonde hair. Pink diamonds in a simple coronet and a skein of blush-pink pearls around her neck completed the picture.

  Delicate innocence and delicious youth, said the colors of her clothing and her jewels. The king, however, while admiring the carefully composed picture as a connoisseur, was wary. The queen’s eyes shone crystal blue and cold when he chanced to glance into them. “Are you thirsty, Elizabeth? Or hungry?”

  The queen laughed delightedly. She shook her head, smiling. “I will not make the obvious reply, husband, though it might amuse you if I did.”

  He smiled, too, to show he remembered. It was a joke from the beginning of their marriage: they used to say that the only thirst, the only hunger they ever felt was for each other. But those were the early days.

  “Well now, what is this concern you have for me, my dear?” He cast one discreet glance toward the papers, the scrolls, piled up on his desk. I’m busy, of course, that glance said, though never too busy to talk to you.

  “I thank you for this time, husband. There is much to do, I know; so many wait on your command. As do I.”

  The king raised his eyebrows. “Command, Elizabeth? In what should I command you?”

  In a startling, theatrical instant the queen tumbled to her knees, clasping her hands and raising suddenly tear-drowned eyes to his. “I love you so much and I live only to serve you and our kingdom. You must tell me it isn’t true, lord and husband.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  The queen shed enchanting tears: it was a gift to cry drops that fell like crystal beads. Still, tears of any kind terrified Edward; he was now seriously alarmed. Elizabeth, beneath lowered lids, saw his bemused discomfort. It was a precious advantage.

  “I have heard it said you will lock me up in a convent of silent nuns until I die, because I have displeased you. Dear Lord and husband, do not send me away. Please God, not that. What would our children do, deprived of their mother? Our precious son…” She sobbed heartbrokenly. Now the king was truly confused. The situation between him and Anne and the queen was complicated and difficult to be sure, but he hadn’t thought of such a thing. The queen was now the mother of a legitimate prince. He couldn’t send her away, even if he might like to. The country would not accept it.

  “This is pure nonsense. Malicious tongues, that is all. You have not displeased me, Elizabeth. This is just court gossip of the worst kind by those who are disaffected to our cause. Come now, let me help you to stand.” He bent to pry the queen’s convulsed fingers away from his shins.

  “No! Not until you swear that you will not send me away. Swear it!” The skein of pink pearls around Elizabeth Wydeville’s neck had a crucifix at its end, tucked away between the queen’s pretty breasts. The body of the Savior surmounting it was rendered in white enamel bound in gold. With shaking fingers, the queen held the cross up to the king, held it in front of his eyes. “Look closely at the sacred body of our Lord, I beseech you.”

  The king had no choice as Elizabeth waved it. The glittering crucifix seemed to fill his vision.

  “As the crowned queen of this country, and mother of your son, I ask you to swear on this broken body that you will not send me away.”

  “You are making yourself ridiculous, Elizabeth.”

  She could hear the embarrassment in his voice; victory was close. More tears and heartfelt sobs. “Oh, Edward, you loved me once. Have I not been loyal to you and your house? Have I not been a good wife to you, staying staunch when all deserted your cause, our cause? Swear, swear by God’s Son and His Blessed Mother that you will not put me away. Please, for the sake of our love and our children.”

  It was the broken little catch in her voice that caused the king’s resolve to waver. That and the guards outside his door, most likely hearing every word of this deeply mortifying charade.

  “If it will please you, Elizabeth, though there is no need.” Never had he been more reluctant or felt so helpless; he hated himself for that. “Very well. I swear it.”

  That was not enough for Elizabeth Wydeville. She stood and pressed the crucifix between the king’s fingers. “Look at our Lord’s tortured body. He died for us; for our sins, yours and mine, Edward.” She didn’t need to enumerate the unnamed transgressions; they both knew what she was referring to. “Say, ‘By the precious body of the Christ, I will not put you, my wife consecrated by God, away, ever, until death shall part us.’”

  He was trapped by her eyes and his guilt; somehow the words formed themselves in his mouth and, to his horror, he heard himself speak them. “By the precious body of the Christ…”

  Her eyes were huge now, so close to his own, the black drowning the blue, and she spoke in a low, humming monotone. “I will not put you…”

  “I will not put you…”

  “…my wife, consecrated by God…”

  “My wife, consecrated by God…”

  “Away, ever, until death shall part us…”

  “Away, ever, until death shall part us…”

  “…on my oath as king of the Realm of England.”

  For a moment the rhythm was nearly broken by this last, unexpected phrase, but her eyes were locked on his and the words seemed to say themselves, though somewhere deep in his mind Edward tried to resist.

  It was useless. He heard himself, heard his own voice, as if it belonged to someone else.

  “On my oath as king of the Realm of England.”

  The queen slid to the floor at the king’s feet, a gracefully tumbled heap of expensive fabric. She spoke with a bowed head; Edward could not see her face.

  “Thank you, my lord and husband. Your children have cause to be grateful for this day.”

  Edward wiped the sudden sweat from his forehead, dazed. “You’re a very strange girl, Elizabeth. What was the need for this?”

  The queen raised her face to his, petal-soft, petal-sweet. “Oh, just the foolish whim of your loving wife, nothing more. And since it’s done, it’s done for all our lives.”

  The last sentence was oddly said, and he was uncertain what she meant by it.

  The queen was not. She knew what she’d just achieved.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  William Hastings held the dice of influence in his hand and, as a last throw, he decided to talk with Anne de Bohun. Because he was a good servant of the crown, the interests of England drove his actions. In this it made sense that the marriage of the king should be strengthened and the position of the queen, mother of the king’s legitimate heir, buttressed with the support he could provide at court. Yet Hastings was not without pity or compassion. Or personal feelings. The king was his friend and he truly seemed to love this girl. And William himself actually liked Anne, even admired her
.

  Perhaps it was possible that the king’s mistress could be managed so that she provided the king with what he needed emotionally, while living in retirement so as not to offend the queen. To find out, he had sent a written summons to Anne de Bohun, conveyed by her servant, the mute. Lunch would be served in the garden of the tower by the waterfall and he would be delighted by her presence.

  As he waited for the girl to arrive, William surveyed the work he had caused to be done with satisfaction, even pleasure. He was a busy man, with little time to waste, but he was pleased his orders had been well observed. This place had something unusual. Peace; was that it? Yet to say that the garden of Anne’s bower was a tame and ordered space was to exaggerate. Wisely, William had made a virtue of necessity in this regard, because after such long neglect, and with so little time, a formal garden could not have been created. Better to allow most of the trees to stand and better yet to clear a number of glades and paths between them here and there, as if the garden had grown up in this manner. But flowers could be, and were, brought and transplanted—roses, peonies, gillyflowers, flocks, wallflowers, hollyhocks, all in full bloom, most of them scented—and small ponds created to be filled with exotic fish and fed by the stream that flowed through the garden. Marble benches were robbed from the gardens of Westminster Palace and artfully scattered at the turn of newly created paths and under some of the more noble trees where the vista of the garden was pleasing; anywhere that lovers might be tempted to sit and dally.

  The waterfall, too, was a welcome surprise when he’d first found it in the depths of the garden. William had been alone on that first visit and had been drawn by its distant thunder. On that still day, the rushing hurry of its water had a distinct voice, a voice that seemed to call him. Long neglect had made the place a natural-seeming grotto, yet when he’d half-closed his eyes, he’d seen that the stone around the waterfall’s pool had been artfully cut and fitted together.

  The water descended from a fissure halfway up the height of a rock wall, where the sun caught rainbows from the sparkling air, a pretty sight. The fissure had the shape of a mouth. Half squinting, William saw that the mouth belonged to an enormous head that bulged outward from the wall. And there were also eyes—though ferns, like green eyelashes, distorted their shapes—and there, a nose. Carved or natural? That face had a strange look. Very ancient somehow and, perhaps, malevolent. A blue butterfly, as brilliant as the sky, had drifted past his face that day, wings moving gently in the languid breeze. The light shifted and he’d seen that the “face” was just a lump of rock, after all, with no particular expression.

  To preserve the intriguing mystery of the place, the surrounds of the pool had been carefully and selectively cleared of overgrowth and two handsome benches placed where they would catch dappled sun for much of the day. Now, as he waited for Anne to join him, he saw that one had been draped with a fall of embroidered jewel-red velvet; a piquant note of courtly luxury in this wild place.

  Also, displayed on the lawnlike moss beside the waterfall, a small feast had been laid. William’s gut grumbled as he contemplated such extensive bounty. The food was covered by white napkins and silver covers, but tantalizing aromas reminded him that he had not eaten since early this morning, after mass. Perhaps if he were just to sample one of the pike and saffron fritters…

  “I did not know about the waterfall, Lord Hastings.”

  The chamberlain, startled, snatched his hand back like a guilty child. Behind him, Anne giggled. “Oh, please, do eat, sir. I have kept you long enough and you must be very hungry.”

  “Alas, lady, animal nature is stronger even than reason.”

  He was glib until he turned and saw her. Then the easy words died. She was dressed in glimmering, lustrous white with her tawny hair loosened and eyes like jeweled adornments in her face, and William Hastings understood Edward’s obsession with Anne de Bohun all over again. The king stood between two women—one fair, one dark. Looking at Anne, William’s decision to choose the queen’s interests above Anne’s wavered. Theirs would be an interesting, and a testing, conversation today. “Whoever built this garden made the waterfall, I believe, though it looks natural at first sight.”

  Anne moved toward him out of the shadows of the trees and the sun touched her head with a hazy corona. The dress she wore was simple and yet the embroidery of pearls made it as precious as that worn by an icon; and as her white skirts trailed over the emerald moss it was as if the material, though loomed by human hands, had become another form of light.

  Enchanted. Enchanting. Anne de Bohun belonged in this place; she too was an amalgam of the wild and the sophisticated, and it was hard to say such banal words as “Are you hungry?” or “Would you like to sit here, lady?” to a woman who looked like a visitor from Faerie.

  “Perhaps you would sit on this bench here, Lady Anne? And allow me to serve you?” William began the conversation, taking the initiative.

  “Yes, I should like that. I can’t remember when I had food last.” Anne sat and the folds of her dress flowed over the embroidered velvet of the seat he had chosen for her. Around the pool, trees moved in the slight breeze, dappling her body with shadow and light, shadow and light.

  Anne was nervous. William could hear it in her voice and, when she glanced at him, her eyes were wary.

  He cleared his throat, a harsh sound. “I thought it best if we spoke together, alone, Lady Anne. Without even the mute. I hope you understand?”

  He proffered a silver plate as he spoke. On it was piled food of a variety of kinds: the saffroned pike fritters he so lusted for; minced guineafowl napped in a sauce of pounded currants, cream, and cinnamon; and whole baked gulls’ eggs, shelled and rolled in salt, honey, and so much parsley they seemed entirely green. There was also a heroically large slice of raised pie filled with oysters, choice beef, young lamb, and larks’ flesh bound with eggs, new ale, and peppered onions. “A spoon, lady?”

  “Thank you.” Anne accepted the plate with a gracious nod. The chamberlain of England himself was serving her with his own hands, the picture of a gallant knight. Anne knew better; she took a deep breath. The contest for the king—body and soul—was joined.

  Hastings returned with his own food a moment later and sat opposite her. “I forgot this.” The chamberlain held out a knife with a short, gilded blade; a pretty thing with no serious edge.

  Anne accepted the knife with a slight smile. “A little blunt, I see. Don’t you trust me, Chamberlain?”

  William coughed as a piece of fritter lodged in his windpipe. “I always trust beauty, Lady Anne; therefore, of course I trust you.” He was inured to lying.

  Anne smiled wistfully, gazing at the waterfall as if it held some special power. “I don’t think I’d be able to if I were you, Lord Chamberlain. Trust me, that is.”

  William Hastings was discomforted. Something had shifted in this conversation and he’d lost the advantage. He began to reply through a mouthful of food, but Anne spoke quickly. “But do not fear me either, Lord William. I want nothing that is in your gift.”

  Hastings swallowed his pie, conscious of a certain resentment. He enjoyed having power again, but it was tempered by this girl where the king was concerned. That annoyed him. However, today, he had summoned her. “But until I know what you seek, you can’t be sure, can you, lady?”

  Anne shook her head. “Trust me in this if you trust me in nothing else, Lord William.” The witty little play on words had an edge.

  “Ah, lady, you are deep in a very dangerous game and, like it or not, you need my help if you are to survive.” Hastings allowed Anne to hear compassion, even sorrow, in his reply.

  Anne was blunt. “This is not a game of my making and, as such, I have not yet chosen to take part. I exist to the side, not at the center. I have come to London for two purposes only and will not stay long. Should I change my intention, enter the ‘game,’ as you put it, then it is for me and the king to decide my actions and requirements. Not you.”


  Now William was offended. “Are you refusing my help, lady?”

  Anne put the plate of food down, untouched. “No. But if I take what you offer I do not want to pay for your assistance, Lord William. Allegiance, freely given, freely chosen by friends, can advantage both of us. You, too, may need what I can give you one day, if we are friends.”

  She’d called his bluff. Was she suicidally foolish or, perhaps, very clever? He swallowed a snort with his pie. Friends? Men and women were never friends, not in the way that men were friends with each other. How could they be?

  “Lady, you speak of choice as if one existed. It does not. I can assure you of that. The queen is—”

  “Seeking ascendancy?” Anne nodded. “Yes, I know that. I’ve been told by many people that her influence grows at court, now that her son is born. She will fight hard to keep that. Yet…”

  Something hovered in the air between them. The scent of power?

  “You must believe that I do have a choice. The king is my friend, as he is yours, but he is my protector also.” She did not say “lover.” “We are bound to each other. I know that I could, perhaps, become a countervailing force to the queen, if I chose to. No, don’t sneer.” She spoke gently at William’s disbelief. “I am telling you the truth. Whatever the king has done in the past, what he and I have is real. And strong. Even stronger now. He loves me. He always will love me.” It was said simply, but Anne was very certain. She lifted her head. “And you are asking me the wrong questions, Lord William.”