The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  The chamberlain watched Anne de Bohun rise to pour more wine for each of them, and decided to be patient. She was brave, yes, but in the end, foolish. The king might love her now, might have loved her in the past, might go on loving her for a time; but the queen was the queen. Edward Plantagenet would never marry this girl, lovely as she was, not even if the current queen died. The king would not make a second foolish marriage just because of the flesh and its attractions; next time he would marry royalty. That left Anne de Bohun with nowhere to go, in the end, but the oblivion of all baseborn mistresses. And there were many forms of oblivion. Some more pleasant than others.

  The chamberlain accepted his silver beaker from the girl’s hands and sat back, smiling slightly. “And so, what questions should I ask you, lady?”

  Anne heard the patronizing tone in his voice. She knew what he thought of her and of her prospects with the king, yet she smiled because she had certainties, and knowledge, he did not. “Because I have a choice, you should ask me if I want the life he offers me, for I know its price. And you should ask me who I am.”

  There was a tone in her voice that flicked doubt into William’s mind. What did she mean, who I am?

  Anne looked toward the waterfall and a shadow passed over her face. “And I know this, Lord William. When it comes time to decide my future, I will choose what I want. Not you. And not the king.”

  William Hastings returned to his pie, chewing on what the girl had said. There was silence between them and he did not break it. He would not play her game; shortly he would leave Anne de Bohun here in the garden to await the king and he would return to the palace. He had made up his mind.

  Anne de Bohun had achieved the impossible: she had made him frightened. She was not just an inconvenient and distracting mistress of the king, she was much more than that. Lady de Bohun had faith in her power over Edward Plantagenet and he had seen that power at work in the king. And, if she came to court, she believed she could pick and choose her allies—and her “friends.”

  One day, the king might be forced to choose between his best friend and the woman he loved. He, the chamberlain of England, could not allow the politics of the bed chamber to ruin England as they had before—or to ruin him.

  “More wine, Lady Anne?”

  The girl shook her head and picked up a little of the food, pretending to eat. They finished the meal in silence and, after a time, William Hastings rose and kissed Anne’s hand before he bowed and walked away. Perhaps the monk was right. Perhaps this girl was a witch, ridiculous as that seemed. Hastings stole one glance back. The enigmatic “god” of the waterfall almost seemed to smile down upon that still white figure in the green glade as if she belonged in his strange domain.

  William Hastings shivered. All Christian men had a duty where witches were concerned; the Bible was very clear on that. He would do his duty. She had given him no other choice.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  The lamps were lit in the tower as the warm day declined into dusk. In the west, the last flaring glory splayed across the sky in colors a painter could never match: ember red, flowing gold, grape black. And in the depths of the garden, Anne, in her glimmering white dress, knelt beside the waterfall, praying.

  What did she pray for?

  Her eyes opened. “Guide me, Mother. Help me. This is too hard. Deborah was right.”

  “I will help you, my darling. Here I am.”

  And he was, thinking to surprise her, but he’d heard the sadness in her voice. It chilled him. Anne turned toward Edward. The wind was rising and branches sighed above his head.

  “It gives me pleasure to look at you, Anne. It’s almost enough.” Almost.

  She reached out her hands to this man she loved so much: hold me. The king gathered Anne de Bohun. “What’s wrong, my darling? Tell me.” The eternal question that a man asked a woman. And there were many answers, but none that could be given words.

  “Don’t be frightened. I have you safe.” Edward tightened his arms around Anne and she smiled, leaning against his chest as he rocked her, gently, to and fro, to and fro. The king looked down at the head resting at the base of his throat. “What do you fear, Anne?”

  “It’s not what I fear, it’s what I now know.”

  Edward frowned and led her by the hand to one of the benches. “You speak to me in riddles tonight, my sweet girl. What causes you so much pain?”

  For a moment, Anne had a sense that they were being watched. She glanced up as the last light in the west glimmered on the mouth, the nose, the deep-set eyes of the god of waterfall. Was his presence benevolent or…

  “People oppose us, Edward. Powerful people. They want me out of your life.” Anne felt the muscles in her lover’s arms and shoulders shift and stiffen.

  “My darling, politics always swirls around the throne. But I am the king. I’ve earned my throne back and the country is mine. I know of no one who can challenge me now, not even Louis.” He was suddenly passionate. “I need you. I need the love and comfort you bring me. The joy we give each other is precious. And I want you here, at court. I want our son to grow up with his sisters, and his new brother; they are his family also. The queen will grow accustomed in time. Other kings are granted happiness in their lives, why not me?” It was a cry direct from his soul.

  Anne put her arms around Edward and kissed him, held his rigid body, soothed him until, at last, he kissed her gently in return. And for that moment, she believed it was all possible, must be possible; they would stand against the world, together. She would not think about William Hastings or Elizabeth Wydeville; would not think about the shame of being the king’s mistress. She would trust in what she and Edward had between them. And live from day to day, snatching what happiness she could. One thing remained.

  Anne sat, and the king sat down beside her, kissing her lovingly. She picked up one of his hands and, looking into his eyes, asked the question that would change her life.

  “I would like to meet my father. We heard little news at home, but some said he was in the Tower. I would like to ask his blessing.”

  Edward dropped his eyes from hers. The wistful catch in her voice was the thrust of a knife.

  “I know he’s been very sick, Edward, but I would like him to know I’m alive. I’ve been told he loved my mother very much, and when he heard she’d died—that I’d died, too—he was distraught.” Anne sighed. “His wife, the old queen, Margaret, was responsible for my mother’s death. Did you know that?”

  Edward brushed tears from Anne’s eyes but he said nothing.

  “I’ve lived all my life without my father. It’s hard when you have no family. My foster mother has loved me so much, and I am very grateful, but I should have liked a father to guide me. I long to see him. Please let me visit him, Edward.”

  The king tried to speak, but then he looked at Anne and she saw what was in his eyes. A nightingale’s call broke the silence between them.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  He turned his face away. “Your father, Henry of Lancaster…” The words died. He began again. “The old king…”

  She could barely whisper the question. “Did you kill him?”

  Agony. It was agony to think of it, for so many reasons. “No. Not I, but…”

  Anne stood with difficulty. Her joints had seized. “You had him murdered.” A flat statement; she was completely certain, yet she longed, longed, for him to deny it. Suddenly she was burning. Fury, agony, fear lit a fire beneath her ribs. She had no breath. “Tell me. Did he suffer? Did he suffer, Edward?”

  “No!” The king stood. He reached for Anne but she stepped back. She would not allow him to touch her.

  And then she saw the tall cloaked woman. The light from the rising moon touched her face, a face made hardly human by the patterns of swirling blue tattoos. Anne lifted her hand in acknowledgment; they were old friends, old companions. Slowly, she turned back to the king. “And the boy. Margaret of Anjou’s son. Did you kill my half-brother also?
”

  Edward Plantagenet was haggard as a specter. The sound of the waterfall was suddenly very loud, the rushing water echoing the pulse of blood in their veins. “It was necessary. While either of them lived, the throne was in danger. I… it had to be done.”

  “You killed them both. My father and my brother. Now I’ll never know if we could have loved each other. If they could have loved me.”

  He could say nothing; there was nothing to say.

  Anne closed her eyes. “I understand. I understand why you had to do it.” It was true. She did understand. One person’s life was nothing, meant nothing. “But this is not the way that I can live my life. One day our son might become inconvenient in the same way. To you, or to Elizabeth. I will not take that risk. I cannot.”

  Anne looked into Edward’s eyes, searching for his soul. Reaching up, she touched the king’s face for the last time, tracing the line of his jaw, allowing one finger to follow the curl of his mouth. And then she kissed him, trying to imprint the smell of him, the sense of him, into her heart. Tasting tears, tasting joy. Tasting… the end.

  And it was done.

  Turning her back, Anne walked toward the shadows, walked toward the Sword Mother where she waited, holding out her hand, scarred fingers loaded with massive gold.

  Edward Plantagenet felt like rock, like stone. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this moment.

  It was over.

  There was no white figure in the moon-touched glade. Anne had gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  It was a long journey, returning to Herrard Great Hall, but this time Anne de Bohun hired horses for them all to ride. It was a blur: day to night, then sleep at an inn, if sleep it could be called; night to day, then ride again; and the next day the same, and the next.

  And as with all things that rearranged the heart, reached the soul, there were no words for what she felt. Fate had to be met and dealt with in silence.

  Failure and loss, failure and loss: the beat of Anne’s horse’s hooves sounded the words. And never again, never again, never again… She would have cried, if she could. But she was empty and dry, a husk, all feeling burned away.

  It was not her own pride that burned her, or shame that she’d been wrong. What destroyed Anne was that she’d had the strength, or the will, to turn away from Edward Plantagenet without a much greater force than she could find in herself.

  But then there was pity. Pity for Elizabeth Wydeville and the king, trapped in a marriage that would last all their lives, and must be lived for duty. With pity came remorse and the most terrible sense of judgment. That was the truly humiliating, scalding thing. Judgment tasted like boiling pitch, like molten iron and acid mixed together, and now it was tearing at her throat, seeking to find her heart and burn it from her chest.

  Jane Alleswhite was frightened of her lady’s profound silence as they rode, day after day. Anne seemed suddenly to have become another person, haunted, hollow-eyed, hardly eating, unable to rest or sleep at night. She was fading to a wraith in front of them. Even the phlegmatic Ralph of Dunster had commented to her, the previous night, that perhaps their lady had a touch of the colic?

  Wat—who had Mathew Cuttifer’s release to return with Anne to Herrard Great Hall permanently—thought himself more sensitive than both of Anne’s other servants and announced the cause, though it gave him no more than gloomy satisfaction in being right. “Her heart’s been broken—that’s what’s happened.”

  Jane shushed the man but surreptitiously crossed herself just the same. Her own opinion was that Anne de Bohun had been cursed in London. She’d heard all sorts of strange rumors about her mistress in the Cuttifers’ house, because there were one or two people there who claimed to remember Anne from a previous time, years ago, a time when she’d been Lady Margaret’s own body-servant.

  These same people said that Anne’s fortunes had been transformed by sorcery or worse, since, rumor had it, she’d once raised their same Lady Margaret from the dead by her black arts. Corpus, the wizened old pigman who lived with his animals, swore to the truth of it. He was full of talk about Lady Anne and the king, too, and the queen. Salacious talk, vicious talk, painting her mistress as an adulterous whore, fit only for burning. Poor, confused Jane, she’d experienced nothing but kindness from Lady Anne and thought, wistfully, that her lady must be very evil indeed to have such a well-disguised black heart, since her beauty and grace suggested goodness, not its opposite.

  And now, on the afternoon of their third hot day on the roads, watching her mistress ride home toward Herrard Great Hall as if returning to her own execution, Jane couldn’t help but wonder if any of the gossip was true, though she crossed herself to ward off such terrible thoughts.

  Autumn had touched the countryside with the lightest of fingers and, though it was still warm, the foliage of the great oak in the inner ward of Herrard Great Hall was withering to dried bronze, telling of what was to come. The first skittish winds of the changing season skirled around the massive trunk as the leaves took flight, so many at one time that they revealed the little boy who’d been roosting unseen among the massive branches. He was the first to see the riders as they came, the westering sun behind them.

  “Deborah, Deborah!”

  Barking his knees and elbows, he slithered from branch to branch and then, with a deep breath, dropped the last six feet to the ground; the distance was more than double his height. Edward rolled as he hit the newly fallen leaves and bobbed up unhurt.

  “Wissy, Wissy! You’re home, you’re home!” He was a small speeding blur and he covered the distance between the tree and the opening gate like a yearling colt. “Oh, we’ve waited and waited and waited. I thought you’d never come.”

  Anne jumped down from her horse and was kneeling, arms wide, to receive the small body as he hurtled toward her. “Yes, I’m here. Home for good.” Her son was in her arms and she could feel the frantic energy of his heart against her own.

  “For good? No more going away?”

  Anne shook her head, brushing away his tears, her tears.

  “No. Home to stay now. Wat?” Anne turned toward her servants. “Take the horses to the stable with Ralph, please. They’ll be hungry. And Jane, I’d like you to help.”

  “Anne!” Deborah hurried across the inner ward, ignoring the pain that autumn brought to her knees. “Oh, child, child. You’re so thin!” Anne de Bohun tried to embrace Deborah but the older woman held the girl at arm’s length, looking searchingly into her eyes. Anne smiled crookedly.

  “Thin, Mother? That’s easily fixed. Your good food and country air is all I need to make me strong again.”

  Shading her eyes, Anne watched her three companions leading the horses away and then she turned from Deborah and looked, really looked at her house. The battlements cut a stark pattern across the flaming sky as the mellow stone darkened. The great tree stood like a sentinel and a witness to this moment. Was this enough? Was this place truly enough?

  Deborah could see the truth in her daughter’s face. Anne was wounded and the pain of that wound was very deep and fierce. Peace and rest: these were the things her daughter needed. And time to heal.

  Edward was impatient. He tugged Anne’s skirt. “We’ve been so busy while you’ve been gone. Come and see.” He was pulling her toward one of the great storerooms under the Hall’s living quarters. Through the open doors, rows of neatly sewn sacks were stacked deep and high.

  Anne was suitably impressed. “Did you do this, Edward? All by yourself?”

  The little boy giggled. “Not me. Leif did. It’s for you. A surprise. You like surprises, don’t you, Wissy?”

  Anne glanced at Deborah, who nodded. “He’s been driving everyone hard, himself also. Leif wants to gather the harvest in ahead of the rains. Edward’s been a great help—he’s very good at gleaning. Meggan says he’s the best she’s ever seen.” Edward puffed out his chest and nodded proudly. Deborah ruffled his hair lovingly. “This good summer has given us grain in
abundance, and food for the animals we’ll keep over winter. And you’re back in time for Harvest Home.”

  “Am I? That’s good. London makes you forget things like Harvest Home. It makes you forget much that is simple and good.” The two women strolled toward the living quarters of the Hall, Edward clinging to Anne’s hand. She wouldn’t ask about Leif. Not yet.

  “They’ll be very pleased you’re back. The villagers. They’ve been anxious.”

  Anne nodded. At least she’d kept faith with her people. That was something.

  “Would you like to rest, Anne?”

  Anne shook her head. “I think that Edward and I will go out to the fields. They’ll be packing up now. I’d like them to see I’m home.”

  “Yes!” Overjoyed, her small son tugged Anne towards the gate. “Come on, come on. Let’s go!”

  When Anne laughed with little Edward, some of the dull pain that had lodged beneath her ribs shifted like a physical thing; and because he made her run to keep up as they set off toward their home meadows, she forgot, for that moment, the weight she carried. The weight of sorrow.

  The last light lay long across the strips of meadow land and gilded the backs of the men as they scythed the standing corn. Women followed, gathering, stooking, binding, gleaning; timeless rhythm, timeless tasks.

  “Look, look who’s here!” Edward danced ahead of Anne, yelling, “Leif. Meggan. Look! Wissy’s back.”

  The tallest of the men stood up and turned, shaded his eyes against the sun. For a moment it seemed he would drop his scythe and run toward the woman and the boy. In the end, he waited for them to come to him.

  Anne tried to think of nothing as she walked across the stubbled field, smiling, saying hello, waving to her friends from the village. There was Meggan. There was Long Will. What would Leif say to her? And what could she say to him? What would she feel?

  She was close enough to look up into his face now. He wasn’t Edward Plantagenet but he was big and brown and real. “Hello, Leif. I’m back.” Such a silly thing to say, but they were the only words she had.