The Uncrowned Queen (12 page)

Louis smiled gently. “Ah, sire, I suspect he worries for your safety with the French about the country everywhere. You would be a rich prize indeed.” And then, seeing the king's skeptical expression, his hard eyes, Louis sighed and spoke the truth. “Perhaps, also, he does not wish to be overwhelmed. You are a difficult man to oppose in the flesh.”

Edward snorted and bared his teeth for a moment, an imitation of a smile, then dropped his shoulders and turned back to look into the flames. “Well, we are no further forward, but no further back either. Nothing is lost. There is still some hope in this for our cause.” There was silence, except for the crackle of the fire as the last scrap of the parchment flamed and turned to a thread of smoke.

“Does it please Your Majesty to rest?” Louis de Gruuthuse bowed as he spoke.

The deep respect he offered was small solace to Edward for now he must give heart to his men. It was an easier task in battle—a reflex operation to swing a sword or an axe in response to years of training; the fear snuffed out in action. No time to wonder what was right, only time to act. This slow game of politics was different. This was thought above physical strength and a truer test of who he was in many ways. And so Edward raised his head and smiled warmly at his host, a real smile this time. “Certainly it does, dear friend,” he said, yawning, and linked his arm through that of Louis
de Gruuthuse. “You know, Louis, this will make a great tale in the telling when you visit us in London,” he went on. “How the king went to bed one night and, in the morning, woke with the solution to his little problem.” Edward laughed, and his genuine lightness of tone drew relieved chuckles from his brother Richard and William, his closest friend. Their spirits lifted. There would be a way; there was always a way.

But later that night, alone in the great bed, Edward lay with eyes open in the darkness and his mind turned and churned on the fair, safe words from his brother-in-law. Could the man not see the danger if he allowed Edward to swing on the gibbet of chance? Or did he not want to see? And was his sister, the duchess, true to her family's cause, or had her great love for her husband distorted her loyalty to her original home? Edward frowned as he remembered the wedding so little time ago, his sister's hand trembling as he'd placed it in that of her new husband after the nuptial mass at Damme.

And Anne. His Anne. Why did he still yearn to see her, to touch her, when so much else was at risk?

Perhaps the itch of the flesh was a useful distraction and his dreams of her, the clear heat of his thoughts when he remembered her face and her body, was God's kind way of giving him relief from the endless tension of his days. Blasphemous thought! The priests would be shocked if he confessed such things. But still, could it be so?

Yes. God was merciful, for Edward's last images before deep sleep took him were of Anne—laughing, reaching out a hand to touch him, kissing his mouth—rather than the harrowing specters of loss and disgrace that had haunted these last days.

Leif placed the first split log on the fire he'd started in Anne's workroom, and then another, carefully lifting the kindling beneath so that air rushed in and made the flames leap and catch. The room was cold but, because it was small, would warm rapidly if he built the blaze well. At first light he'd occupied himself in cutting wood for all the fireplaces in Anne's home. Everywhere he'd looked on the farmstead there was work half done in preparation for winter. Anne needed more men to help her, and someone to oversee their work, or she'd be taken advantage of. He did not like to think of that. At some very deep level of his being, he wanted the mistress of this house to be warm and safe. He shook his head; he was avoiding the truth. He could stack all the logs he liked, but there'd be no warm, safe winter for Anne de Bohun.

Standing in the open doorway unseen, Anne watched Leif and found herself smiling. For such a large man he did his work neatly, taking pride in the tidy stack of logs he'd built beside the hearth.

“Thank you for the fire, Leif, and all the wood you've cut. It will be very useful.”

The seaman spun around, startled. Anne smiled again as she sat on a joint stool and picked up her carding comb. There was a mass of unspun wool in a basket by her feet; she bent to select a hank of it. “The year has truly turned. It's cold today.”

Leif nodded as he fed the fire, watching from the corner of one
eye as she teased the wool into long strands, readying it to spin. She had beautiful hands; he hadn't noticed that before. Anne looked up from her work and caught his glance.

“And so—overland? Or a sea journey? Which is best, do you think?”

The seaman shrugged his shoulders, cloth straining as the formidable muscles moved. “Easier by sea, except for the season. The alternative, well…” Many days' journey in cold weather on half-made tracks with mercenaries everywhere was what he meant.

“You are right,” Anne said. “The sea road will be better for us. How soon can you be ready?” She was businesslike, her tone implying the thing was settled, but of course it wasn't. The
Lady Margaret
, presently docked in Sluys, the nearest seaport to Brugge, was under Leif's command but she was a valuable merchant trading vessel and not Anne's—or Leif's—to dispose of. The cog belonged to Sir Mathew Cuttifer, Anne's patron and former employer, and both were acutely conscious of that. Silent for a moment, each stared into the fire.

Leif leaned forward and added another, superfluous log to the bright flames. “We are loaded nearly to the gunwales with cargoes my master is expecting in London. I'm just waiting for the last bales of damask and crates of majolica now.”

He was caught between his declared duty to Mathew Cuttifer and his undeclared fears for this woman. And when he thought of the ex-king, coals of red rage flamed in his gut. Edward Plantagenet did not know, did not care to understand, just how many lives he placed at risk with his ambitions and his carelessness, Anne's included. And the girl felt something for the king, Leif sensed it; she dropped her eyes from his when they spoke of Edward Plantagenet. The gossip was true, then.

Leif glanced at Anne's profile as she stared into the flames, her hands idle. He sighed. If this girl was really determined to go, so was he. So much for the firewood. Exasperation made his voice harsh. “If I have to answer your question, the sea road is a little better. And though I don't like this, I will agree to help the king. My master is Edward Plantagenet's friend, and he has few enough of those left now. Earl Warwick has seen to that.”

Sudden tears dripped onto the spindle between Anne's fingers. Her voice shook and it was hard to breathe.

“You are a good man, Leif Molnar. I am grateful for your help.” She said “I” unconsciously; she should have said “we.” Embarrassed by the slip, Anne put down her spindle and hurried from the room. Not for the first time she thought, guiltily, that if Edward did not exist then this man, this good man, might have meant more to her. She liked him, and some said that was enough. And Anne de Bohun knew, better than did Leif himself, that if she once stretched out her hand to him, Leif would clasp it and he would not let her go. Ever.

She shook her head, banishing the image. She would not allow that picture—that fantasy of a safe and happy home and a real father for her son—be given life or strength, not even for a moment. She had enough emotional confusion in her life without adding more.

Once given, Leif's word bound his actions. In the days since offering Mathew Cuttifer's trading cog to the cause of Edward Plantagenet, the Dane worked harder than a chained slave to find warehouse space in Sluys for his master's cargo until it could be retrieved. Leif might borrow the ship but he would not risk more than that. This was no easy task. Trading goods from Brugge were building up in storage ahead of resumption of seaborne trade in the spring, and warehouse space was expensive and hard to come by. Also, Leif had to buy or find other goods to fill the cog's hold as cover for their voyage.

In the end, bolts of Anne's own woolen cloth were stowed in the belly of the
Lady Margaret
, plus willow-wood tubs of good white butter from Riverstead Farm. To the navvies of Sluys it seemed odd to ship butter and cloth north to other Lowland provinces, which had a more than plentiful supply of their own such goods, yet the captain of the
Lady Margaret
refused to be drawn by their jokes. Setting his face and urging them to load faster, faster, he promised a bonus of Gruuthuse beer at the end of the stowing if they did it in a day.

It was a cold and sad departure when the little ship slipped out past the breakwater of Sluys on a sullen November dawn. On her deck, Anne was red-eyed from crying, though she'd managed to save her tears until after her departure from her son, who would remain safe with Deborah. Somehow the little boy had understood, no matter how hard she smiled and reassured him, that Anne was leaving for a long time. “Don't go. No. Stay!” he'd cried when she put him to bed in her own room the night before she left. She'd loved that flash of defiance, but had tried to respond in a sensible parent's voice.

“But you can sleep here, in my big bed with Deborah, until I return. You'll like that, my darling.”

“No. Stay with Edward. Stay!” His sobs tore at her resolve.

“Ah, there now, there now, don't cry. I'll bring you a present, a special one.”

The little boy had perked up at that; he loved presents. “I want a blue horse.” He'd said it very firmly, looking her in the eye through his tears. “A giant blue horse. All for me. I'm a big boy now.”

“A blue horse? Very well.”

The tears subsided into gulps. “Really? A truly blue one? Where will you get him?”

“I have some very clever friends. We'll find him, your horse. What will you call him?”

Edward had yawned and burrowed under the covers. “Oh, I don't know yet. He will have a splendid name.” He used the big word proudly, but his eyes were drooping closed. Anne had sat beside him all that night, stroking his high, pure forehead, her heart breaking. Perhaps she would never see this child again.

Recalling her son's request now, as a rising sea rushed past, Anne smiled and shook her head. A blue horse? Why not? If she could make the impossible happen, if she could bring Edward back to Brugge to meet with the duke and survive, physically and emotionally, perhaps finding a blue horse would be easy.

Then she shivered as a physical pain beneath her ribs took her next breath.
If I die in this journey, let the child survive. Ah, Mother of All, please let the child survive
.

“When did this happen?”

“Five days ago, sire.”

“And where, my dear friend, did this so felicitous birth take place?”

Philippe de Commynes felt his nervous heart skip painfully. He lived in a capricious world. How often, in the end, did the messenger get blamed, no matter how valued he might be, how esteemed? “In the sanctuary of St. Peter's Abbey at Westminster, my Lord King. The queen—that is, the wife of the usurper, Edward, the earl of March—labored through the night and the boy was born early on the fourth day of this month. Of November,” he added helpfully.

Louis, king of France, looked hard at the man kneeling before him. “I know the names of the months well enough, Monsieur de Commynes. Do you have proof?”

Philippe was sweating; he could feel the dank trickle under both his arms even though it was very cold in the Presence chamber. He swallowed and drew a deep breath, yet his words shook slightly as he exhaled. “Nothing but the account of a witness, Lord King. A woman that my master, the duke, maintains among the ex-queen's women.”

For once Louis felt warm; perhaps it was suppressed choler heating his blood. His words smoked on the air as he spoke. “And does your master know, Philippe? Hmmm?”

The young Monsieur de Commynes blushed at the king's sly tone. “Of course, Your Majesty. Or else I should not be here.”