The Uncrowned Queen

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Anne patted his hand in a distracted way, then bent down to gather more apples to fill the new basket. “Arnica and woundwort. And comfrey poultices. Very basic treatment, really, but I’m feeling much better.”

  Leif started to say something, but stopped himself. Anne was spending too much time alone. That was not healthy. Her body was healing but her spirit was another matter; it was burdened by the monk’s poison and the shadow of Edward Plantagenet. He would lift the shadow and drain the poison. If she’d let him try.

  “Deborah sent me to bring you back to the Hall. She has hot food for us all and Edward’s hungry. You can fill that later. Or I can.”

  Anne dropped a few more apples into the basket. Already it was half full. “All right. I’ll leave it here. We can come back after we’ve eaten and fill it together if you like.”

  Leif brightened. At least she’d said “we.” He bent down and shouldered one of the full baskets that were placed neatly beneath a naked pear tree. “What do you want all this for anyway? Windfalls won’t preserve well.”

  Anne matched her pace to his long stride. Part of her wanted to reach out and claim one of his hands; part of her didn’t. “Meggan has told Deborah of an apple wine they make here. You peel the apples, crush them and add honey and water, then leave them to ferment. The longer you leave them, the more potent the wine becomes.” She smiled up at him. “They use it at weddings. The guests become cheerful very fast, or so they say in the village.”

  “Well, then, I think you should make as much as you have crocks for. I’d like to see you cheerful again.” He took a deep breath. “And I’d like to see you married. To me.”

  Anne stopped and so did Leif. They turned toward each other and she gazed up into his eyes but said nothing. He could not read her expression.

  “Anne? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Wissy, Wissy, you have to hurry or it’s all going to get cold. And I’m very, very hungry. Come on.”

  Edward, spying Leif and Anne from the kitchen, had hurried out to meet them. He pulled hard at the skirt of Anne’s apron, trying to shepherd her toward the kitchen.

  Anne spoke very softly. “I heard you, Leif.” But she picked up her son’s small hand and allowed him to lead her toward the Hall. “We’re coming, Edward. We’re hungry too, I promise you.”

  Leif called out to Anne’s departing back. “And?”

  She turned for a moment, but was helpless to resist her son’s determination. “Talk to me tomorrow, Leif. Let me think. I need to think.” But she smiled at him. It was tentative, but still a smile. Leif’s heart lifted. Tomorrow could not come too soon; it would be a good day. He was certain of that.

  Whistling, he hefted the basket and followed the woman and the small noisy boy toward the Hall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  The sudden shiver of winter banished the long golden summer from London. Trees shook in the pitiless east wind and the air was swirling, full of dead and flying leaves. At Westminster, it was cold again in the greatest rooms and fires and braziers were lit to ward off the damp chill and the gloom as the days drew in.

  The people of London looked forward to Advent. This year, this year of triumph, the court would celebrate in style, especially now that the king seemed so secure on his throne with all his enemies vanquished. Yes, it was good to be English once more. It was said the baby prince thrived so close to this, his first birthday, and there was even a rumor that the queen might be with child again. Perhaps another son would be born, making the future of the dynasty a certain thing? The Londoners all liked the little princesses, of course, but in the end, a country needed boys, needed princes. And that was what the queen was doing for them. That was one thing you could say for Elizabeth Wydeville—she was fertile. And there was every hope for more children now that Edward was back in the saddle, in every way.

  Meanwhile, the people of London cheered the royal couple whenever they appeared together in public, which was often, and wished them well, for all their sakes, now that the specter of the old queen and the old king had vanished away.

  In the splendid nursery, as the shadows of the blustery evening lengthened, Edward Plantagenet waved the seven nursemaids, the two wet nurses, and the three cradle-rockers away. He gazed down on his sleeping son and lightly touched the baby’s face. There was such sadness in that touch.

  “Your Majesty?”

  The lord chamberlain whispered, not wanting to wake the child. The king turned toward his oldest friend and William Hastings drew a short breath. Dark circles under Edward’s eyes told the story. Exhaustion. Desolation.

  The king put a finger to his lips and signaled they should leave. There was a rustle, like wind through standing corn, as the entire silent suite of servants sank to their knees and bowed their heads to honor the king as he left his son in their care.

  “Has it been drafted as I requested?”

  “Yes, sire. The Lady Anne’s son has been invested with the titles as you required, and the lands. He is now a baron in his own right, and, as instructed, when he reaches his maturity, will be honored with the title Earl of Carlion. He has the French titles also, against the day you take France back into the kingdom of England. A person of great consequence.”

  “And his mother?”

  “She too has the grant of extra lands. Her estate will be substantial now.”

  The king nodded as he took the parchment to scan. He appeared satisfied. If he’d looked at his old friend in that moment, Edward would have seen a strange expression on the chamberlain’s face. Fear, perhaps? Regret?

  “Very well, come with me, William. I will sign it in my closet. Then you must see that all is done as I expect it to be. I wish, too, that you will give the Lady Anne this new grant of arms as quickly as can be arranged.”

  William said nothing. He had seen the new heraldic device. The leopards of Anjou were still there, but instead of two drops of blood there were now three and the whole was surmounted by a broken sword.

  Edward sighed like a weary man and walked with a heavy tread. William attempted to buoy his spirits. “It will be good to have a proper winter court, sire. A tournament, perhaps? With a queen of beauty to award the prizes? Perhaps Her Majesty would graciously honor the court in this way?” If he could not say it, who could? It was time the estrangement between Elizabeth Wydeville and the king was ended, for the good of the country.

  But the king turned to his chamberlain. “The queen of beauty? She’s gone. By my actions, I sent her away.”

  Something beyond politics made William Hastings speak the truth; his words came from somewhere he had not expected: his heart. “I do not think the Lady Anne would have enjoyed living at court, sire.”

  The king was puzzled. “Why do you say that, William? How could you possibly know?”

  Regret and shame chased themselves across the chamberlain’s face, and this time the king observed them. “I know, Your Majesty, because I hold the Lady Anne in the highest regard. She has real courage and it was her choice to live another kind of life from that which you offered her. We must wish her well in it. She has escaped many dangers”—the king’s look was quizzical; he rarely heard his worldly chamberlain so fervent—“and has come home safely, at last. She has earned her peaceful haven, away from the glare of the court.”

  The king gazed down on the river far below as it slipped toward the sea. They were so high in the palace, it was almost an eagle’s view. The chamberlain crossed himself behind the king’s back. If Anne de Bohun prospered now, she did so despite his betrayal. A betrayal he deeply regretted, not least for its being unnecessary, for it was some time since he’d heard about the death of the monk. Perhaps, one day, he would tell the king the full story. Not yet, however. Certainly not yet. Please God the false papers had been burned.

  Edward turned back to his friend, eyes huge and haunted. “I hope she will be happy, but I miss her. I’ll always miss her. She was enchanting.”

  The chamberlain nodded. “‘Enchan
ting’ is the correct word, sire.” Enchanting in the way of a beautiful woman. Not in the way of a witch. William Hastings allowed himself to acknowledge that truth as he followed the king to his closet. Witchcraft? That was the queen’s domain. He’d fallen for Elizabeth’s brand of sorcery once and only once, when it had suited them both, in trying to dispose of the Lady Anne. But never again. She was his queen, but he was not her ally or her friend. To be either was too dangerous altogether.

  He had chosen his allegiance. The king, not the queen. He would hold that faith now, open-eyed, until death.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Advent again. And it was cold. A bitter rain dripped down his neck and back as he rode and that did not improve Louis’s temper in the murk of descending night. Then he remembered what had been bothering him all day. He shot the words impatiently over his shoulder.

  “Le Dain! What happened to the monk? I’ve heard nothing.”

  The barber had been dreading this particular conversation. He kicked the flanks of his cold and miserable horse and rode up beside the king. “Your Majesty, there is bad news. I have only just received the dispatch.” He was lying, of course; he’d known the news for some days. “The monk, Brother Agonistes, has disappeared.”

  The king reined his horse to a stop. “Disappeared? How? Where?”

  “The events are cloudy, sire. The report I have says he attempted to remove the Lady Anne de Bohun from England and… er… has not been seen since.”

  “But why should he do such a thing?”

  Le Dain was confused. “Your instructions, sire? You requested information. Perhaps he felt that the lady knew things about the king that would be of advantage to your cause and that if he removed her to France, he would hurt the… the earl of March.”

  Louis snorted. Lately the pain in his legs had returned and to lose the monk at such a time was an annoyance; distinctly an annoyance! “He’s always been unstable, my ‘brother-monk,’ but in this, he’s exceeded his authority. Abducting a woman from her own country? Idiot!” The king pouted at the thought of the monk’s stupidity. Le Dain licked his lips nervously. Pouting was always a bad sign.

  “Le Dain?”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I want another monk. A sane one. My legs hurt.”

  “Immediately, Your Majesty. And see, there is the hunting lodge. We’re nearly home.”

  “But I won’t eat goose tonight, do you hear me? Goose never agrees with me. It unbalances the humors. Go and tell them that. They know what happened to the last goose cook.”

  Le Dain bowed reverently at the ominous words and galloped off ahead of the party toward the distant lights of the hunting lodge. Unbalanced humors? God preserve them all from Louis’s humors, unbalanced or not. And just where would he get another monk, or a leech who would pretend to be a monk, at this time of night?

  Leeches? Now, there was the beginning of a good idea. Leeches and the king’s legs. That might work. Anything to distract Louis from asking the most frightening question of all.

  The fate of the little monster, Louisa.

  “What are you writing, wife?”

  Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, turned at her writing table and smiled at her husband.

  “I want to give my family in England the good news we share, Charles. My mother will be delighted. So will my brother, the king.”

  Charles strolled over to his wife and bent to nuzzle her neck, kissing and nibbling. She squirmed; he knew just how to excite her.

  “Stop that! I can’t concentrate.”

  “But that is good. Perhaps we can make another little person tonight to share your womb with our son?”

  Margaret blushed, but the bright eyes of her husband gave her such pleasure. “But Charles, we shouldn’t. It’s wrong. This is the gift of life, it’s not for pleasure—the Church says so. And now we have engendered a child. That is enough for the moment. Isn’t it? We would not want to hurt our baby.”

  She turned in his embrace, looked at him pleadingly. Charles sighed; he could see she was serious. Sometimes it was a nuisance having a devout wife.

  “My darling is right, certainly. But…” He could not resist caressing her neck, she had such beautiful skin. “Is it not a little early to be telling your family?”

  Margaret turned back to her letter; she had never felt so confident, so certain. She patted his hand lovingly as she wrote. “It is certainly ten weeks or more.” She pulled one of his hands down to her belly. “This time, this time I have a good feeling.”

  She leaned back against her husband’s chest, dreaming. “And if we have a son, we could call him Ed—” She flicked a glance at her husband. “No. I think he should bear his father’s name. Charles. In time, he will be the second king of Burgundy, now that Louis has no allies to speak of.”

  Charles smiled and bent to kiss his wife. “Never underestimate a Valois, wife. Never underestimate the king of France. We have no kingdom yet.”

  Margaret turned her glowing face to his. “Ah, but we will, husband. And I carry the heir. I’m certain of it. The heir to the kingdom of Burgundy.”

  Charles prayed that she was right—about the child and about his kingdom. But they’d both been wrong before.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  “I think you’re ready now.”

  Margaret Cuttifer stood back beside Deborah and the two women looked critically at Anne. Soft light bloomed through the thick glass of the casement and found highlights in her shining, unbound hair.

  Though she was very pale—all brides were pale on their wedding day—her eyes were bright and her skin was radiant. The green dress was a novel choice, of course, as were the soft red shoes, but Anne had made the gown herself and would listen to no argument about the color. And today she was wearing the Cuttifers’ wedding gift, a massive rope of matched pearls and emeralds. Jewels fit for a princess.

  Anne caught her breath under their critical gaze and smiled. “Yes. I’m ready. I really am.” She said it confidently. She meant it. It was a brilliantly fine day as late autumn shaded into winter, and now the moment was close, the moment when Anne de Bohun would marry Leif Molnar. Soon they would say their vows in the porch of the newly refurbished church dedicated to the Mother of God, the blessed Lady Mary, empress of Heaven.

  The people of the entire village would be there and some of the gentry from the surrounding properties, however, it would be a small celebration as these things went, for it was widely perceived in the district that Anne, an heiress honored by the king with even more substantial grants of land on her marriage, was throwing herself away on a man much beneath her in station. The bride knew better.

  “Anne, are you ready yet? We can’t leave the poor man standing there, not in front of the whole village.” Sir Mathew Cuttifer knocked at the door of Anne’s room, and all three women giggled.

  “Yes, Sir Mathew. I’m dressed. Come in.”

  “I’m sorry to hurry you, Anne, but really I’m worried we’ll be…” The great merchant looked at the bride and a new expression crept over his face. Awe.

  Wordlessly, he held out his arm to Anne and, before she placed her hand in his, she turned to the two women who were her closest friends. She tried to speak, but Margaret hurried forward, breaking the moment.

  “The veil. We nearly forgot the veil! Deborah, help me.”

  Between them, the simple square of finest silk gauze edged with tiny pearls was dropped over Anne’s head and an unadorned circlet of gold was gently pressed down to hold it in place. The material was so delicate, so fine, it flowed around her shoulders and down her back like a cloud. “There. On your way, Mathew.”

  Outside, in the inner ward of Herrard Great Hall, the stakes of the harvest wain had been twined with ivy and holly—the red berries standing out like rubies among the mass of darker green. A velvet-covered bench was placed ready for the bride and the man who would shortly give her away in place of her dead father, as was a fur rug, in case the day should turn cold. And stand
ing proudly by the horses’ heads, one on each side, were Wat and Ralph in new livery of Anne’s own colors: red and forest green.

  For Anne, the journey to the village passed in a swift and nervous dream. They traveled past a blur of faces, with the din of happy shouts and barking as all the village dogs tried to welcome them at once. And there, standing in the porch of the church, was the man she would marry; Leif was waiting for her, as nervous and pale as she was. Mathew, who was not insensitive, sensed Anne’s state and before he lifted his ward, the beautiful Lady Anne de Bohun, down from the wain, he patted her hand and whispered, “Courage, my child. Courage!” Anne took a deep breath and, as the great merchant proudly led her to her groom through the people of her village, she found she was smiling. It was all right. It was going to be all right.

  And when Mathew placed Anne’s hand in Leif’s much greater hand, and they both turned to face the priest who would join them together as man and wife, she twined her fingers through his and made herself think only of him. She would see only her husband’s face today; she owed him that much.

  But later, as Anne stood in the church, hearing the words of the nuptial mass, she looked down at her red shoes, her green dress, and she remembered, just for a moment. Once, long ago and far away, she had worn another green dress, and a rope of emeralds and pearls as well, and another man had looked at her as longingly, as lovingly as Leif now did, standing beside her at the altar.

  She smiled at the tall man by her side, her new husband. For him she had sewn this wedding dress with her own hands, and with each stitch she had set in the leaf-green velvet she had consciously created a link to the future and severed one more thread from the past. Yes, the color was unconventional but it was her choice, for green was the color of new love. She smiled tenderly as she linked her fingers once more into those of her new husband and looked up into his proud face. Love was a tender plant, but it would grow between them well, for they would both treat it with care and tend it faithfully. This was her promise to him, and his to her.