The Uncrowned Queen (13 page)

“So dignified, my young friend. So righteous.”

Louis drew the skirts of his heavy, fur-lined robe tight around his meager shanks as he stood. He had conducted the audience in the Presence room, which was both formal and pompous, but the throne itself was increasingly uncomfortable; the sharp edges of the seat cut off the circulation behind his fleshless knees and numbed his legs. That annoyed him. However, he bestowed a wintry smile upon the young man in front of him. It is good for Philippe, he reflected, that I find I like him.

“I have a message for your duke, Philippe. Tell him that word reached me two days ago that Edward Plantagenet has a son. And, unlike your master, I have proof that this rumor is correct.”

Pulling off a darned glove and exposing one wrinkled hand, Louis removed a ring from the smallest finger.

“Observe! This ring came from the finger of Elizabeth Wydeville herself, after the birth. She sent it with a message to her husband. But I have both the ring and the message. And the messenger. And thus I, also, know where Edward Plantagenet is hiding.”

The last word was defiled by spittle as the king spoke it, showing obvious contempt.
A foolish response
, thought Philippe de Commynes. Could it be that Louis underestimated Edward Plantagenet? He surprised himself with the treacherous idea and, for a moment, forgot to be afraid; suddenly he saw this king as he might be perceived by eyes not filmed with terror.

Louis was an unheroic sight—a face where the flesh had settled into blotched and raddled pouches; a barrel of a body, swaddled with fat, sitting like an apple above thin legs, with stick-thin arms attached; and an unfortunate stoop that had settled the head on a neck like that of a tortoise. As Philippe stood waiting for Louis to say something further, a treasonous image captured him. This king was a spider, a fat spider, pregnant with bile, ready to project poison if his belly was punctured by—

A sound like a dog vomiting interrupted Philippe's thoughts as
the king spat onto the gleaming tiles of the Presence chamber. Again Louis gathered phlegm and hawked it up. A lipless smile split his face. “Tell your master, Philippe, that his intelligence was of little use to me since I had it already. Burgundy will not become France's friend by the gift of second-hand information.”

Philippe couldn't help himself; he spoke without invitation. “Sire, my master is a true subject of France and wishes only peace between his realm and yours.”

The king snorted. He slid the ex-queen's ring back onto his finger and held it up to the light for the younger man to observe. “A ruby.” Malice almost made him merry. “So sentimental. A good and constant wife, her price above rubies, offers hope to her noble husband in exile with the news of the birth of his son, and so on. Such nonsense.”

The king wriggled gleefully on the Presence throne.

“Sadly, children, especially the newly born, often die in these dark months, do they not? It may be this little child will have been taken to his ancestors even before the ex-king, his father, hears of his birth? Ah, to be friendless and alone, as Edward Plantagenet is. How sad. But then perhaps this is the will of our great and gracious Lord.” Piously, the king crossed himself and kissed the relic ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

Philippe de Commynes shivered. He was aware of the withered bits of flesh, the various splinters of bone, that the king kept dangling about his person. Devout as he was, they still gave Philippe the creeps. However, he also did not doubt the power of the French king. If he chose to stretch out his arm, perhaps his hand might reach into the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey so far away across the sea.

“And so, my friend, pleased though I am to have seen you once more, your journey here was wasted. Go back to your master and tell him that France needs nothing from Burgundy.”

Another man, a man more given to bluster, might have shouted these last words, but not so Louis Valois. He spoke mildly, quietly, and yet they shivered in the air as if a trumpet had sounded beside Philippe's ear.

The young man bowed, the tippets of his sleeves brushing the floor. “I shall convey Your Majesty's words just as they have been so graciously spoken.”

The king chuckled. “Ah yes, I am certain that you will. You have proved your courage to us before and we live, yet to this day, as testament. Our court is the poorer for your departure, Philippe.”

Philippe did not raise his eyes as he backed away from the Presence chair. He knew that Louis was acknowledging their special relationship, yet other men stood about the chamber and they would be avid to see or hear anything they could report to… who knew? Polite behavior, however, demanded he respond.

“Your Majesty is too kind, indeed, to remember my trifling service. It was my duty, as a guest in your court.”

It was nearly two years gone since he, Philippe de Commynes, had saved the life of this same French king. Attending court with his master, Charles of Burgundy, on an official visit to the Louvre the year after the duke's marriage to the Lady Margaret of England, Philippe had seen a page empty the contents of a poison ring into the sauce around the king's dish of cinnamon-spiced tench. Philippe had raised the alarm immediately, though discreetly, whispering into his master's ear. The result had been both blessing and curse. A blessing because the page had been caught and, after the sauce had been tested on a dog—which died in convulsions—had been racked for more information. They'd been too zealous, however, and the boy had died before revealing who had hired him to do the deed. For some days, paranoia had stalked the French court and suspicion, in the end, had fallen on Charles of Burgundy. Therein lay the curse, and a froideur had underlain the relationship between Philippe and his master ever since.

Courtiers gossiped that Philippe was now more France's servant than Burgundy's. Desperate nonsense; nevertheless, his previously favored existence at the right hand of the duke had become complicated and smeared by suspicion. Now, to prove his devotion for all to see, he had personally volunteered for this dangerous mission to the French king in these uneasy times.

If he could just safely depart the Presence chamber…

“Philippe, one last thing.”

“Sire?”

“What is this amusing name I hear you are called now?”

Philippe blushed. He would not say it; it was too humiliating. “Name, sire?” He could not control his voice. Was he a child, close to tears, that it shook so?

Observing his discomfort, an almost palpable stirring moved through the court as wind through wheat.

“Boothead? Is that it?” Philippe heard snorts of laughter, suppressed into coughs, all around him. He squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, and dared to look the king in the eye.

“A joke, sire. It pleased Duke Charles to make a joke after an accident. We all laughed merrily.”

He bowed with dignity and removed himself from the Presence chamber, his ears painfully hot. He could still hear the titters as they closed the doors but he determined to ignore them, all of them. Yes, a hunting boot had been thrown at him, one of the duke's, and yes, it had hit him in the head. Had it been a deliberate insult or just a slip, as can happen? He'd laughed along with all the rest of Charles's suite at this misfortune, but the duke had compounded the injury by referring to him by the repellent name, “Boothead.” It had stuck. And now they knew of it here in France. The king knew of it. Philippe felt his heart swell and harden.

If he were not appreciated in Burgundy, plainly there were other openings for him. Perhaps, if his duke and the Burgundian court did not believe in his loyalty, if they continued to mock him, he might become Louis's servant in truth, not just rumor.

“A son? The queen has had a son?”

Louis de Gruuthuse nodded. “It was a good birth, sire. And the boy, your heir, is healthy and well.” The party of men had been returning from another day at the chase, weary and mud-flecked but successful this time, when they were joined, at the gallop, by their host. The king, fearful of bad news, had reined in his horse sharply, startling the stallion he was leading—across whose back the body of the elusive stag from the day before lay slung. But the knowledge of this birth changed everything. Everything.

Edward Plantagenet was joyous. His elation caused him to curb his horse so tightly that the animal snorted and fought the bit; then, slowly, regret chased rapture from his face. The Lowlanders put it down to his separation from the queen at this time, but William Hastings and Richard of Gloucester knew better. They knew his thoughts were with another little boy. And with his mother, Anne de Bohun, the woman who had given the king his real firstborn son.

Hastings, determined to break the king's sad mood, called out, “The country will rejoice with you, sire!” He brought his horse close to the king. “Wriggle all she likes when she comes to it, but Margaret of Anjou's son has never been accepted as Henry's legitimate get. The new prince will give the lords someone to rally to. This is a most fortunate day for our cause, Your Majesty.”

Richard crossed himself fervently. “Amen. A legitimate prince.” Briefly he caught his brother's eye.

“What name has the queen given the child, Louis?”

“Your own, Your Majesty, so I understand. Edward.”

“And so, Louis, if my brother-in-law has sent this news himself, how long ago did it happen?”

“Perhaps as much as eight or ten days.” But Edward hardly stayed to hear the answer. Dropping the reins of the horse carrying the stag, he spurred his mount and wheeled it back in the direction of the Binnenhof.

“Edward?” Richard called after his brother. Then, being ignored, he kicked his own mount into a gallop to follow the king, as did William Hastings.

Louis de Gruuthuse, caught by surprise and mud-spattered, was left to lead the stallion and the stag home. The time for caution was at an end, and he knew it.

The waves were mountains and the valleys between them deeper and darker than the night fast coming out of the west. Among the chaos of wind and water, the shrieking power that threatened destruction to the
Lady Margaret
and all aboard her, the treacherous thought came unbidden. A woman on board. What should a seaman expect? But the Dane dismissed the superstition immediately, settling in to fight the sea. Freezing water in his face, darkness coming on, terror nesting in his bowels, he remembered that other voyage, years ago, when he'd taken Anne and Deborah to Whitby on the
Lady Margaret
. His own fear, and that of his men, had been groundless then, in that storm, and they'd be groundless now. He'd not give in or give up, because he wanted to live. And he wanted her to live. He'd fallen in love with Anne on that first voyage and nothing had changed in the years since. He'd bring them to land. He had to. He'd won against the wind and the sea before and he would again. Today.

Through the fast-dying light, he knew it was there, the coast. They were nearly in safe harbor, nearly, if they could just hold on, hold the
Lady Margaret
from breaking up.

“Bail! Bail—all hands.
Bail!
”

But the cog's bow went under again, and she had only just struggled up, shrugging off the weight of the water streaming down her high, planked sides, when yet another black hillock hurled spume toward them as the mountainous crest toppled down.

Leif had been lashed to the tiller hours ago but even he felt numb as he saw what was coming. He had trimmed the sail as tightly as he could, leaving only just enough for the helm to answer. But now, as he hauled on the tiller and hauled again, there was an almighty crack—the sail on the mast below the sterncastle shook loose and bellied wildly, yards trailing and whipping.

Leif bellowed without thought, “Let it fill, then lash it tight.
Hard!
” The few men who remained on deck leapt to obey. This was life or death and they were all in it together.

Willing hands grabbed at the sheets and Leif breathed in, a great swallow of cold air, and hauled on the tiller again with the strength of the desperate as the wave bore down toward the prow. But she answered, the helm answered, and the
Lady Margaret
began to tack across the face of the wave, diagonally, and up! And then she was at the top and sliding down, planing down into the valley below without being swamped. A miracle! Praise be! For before the
Lady Margaret
journeyed down into darkness, Leif glimpsed heaven. Last light and a gap in the flying spray showed him what he sought: the breakwater of the port of Delft. His strength would serve; he would make it serve.

“Captain!” The shout came from his mate. “Another one!” Another giant crest, and the
Lady Margaret
was heading straight toward it.

“Get below!” His voice was great enough to be heard above the storm and he knew they would obey him; there was nothing the men could do now that the sail was lashed. This was for him now, him alone. As the wave barreled toward them, the howling dark personified, he began to count, “One, two, three,” as, measured, careful, powerful, he wrenched the tiller around once more…