The Uncrowned Queen (8 page)

“For my brother?” the duchess asked.

“Yes. He will need every groat and every penny he can find.” Margaret nodded. She understood that this woman loved Edward Plantagenet too. “Of course, but this farm is nothing near the answer to his needs. And he would not want you to lose your home. He cares about you, and the boy. If you will help me, however, perhaps we can bring him a much greater sum than the price of this place. And men besides. That is his real need if he's to beat Warwick. And… George.” It was hard to say the name of her brother, the duke of Clarence. The traitor. “Charles has forbidden me to help Edward. Or even to go to him. But you could, Anne, if you chose to.”

The duchess held up a bulging leather bag. “I have this for him—money, and a letter from me. He needs to know what he's facing. Charles will not help.”

The duchess was very pale. She had sworn in the cathedral at Damme that she would obey her husband, but now she was betraying that oath made before God. She had also sold some of the York jewels, including the crown she'd worn on her wedding day—a double betrayal since they were part of the dowry she'd brought to Burgundy. It was a bitter choice—loyalty to blood rather than to the man she loved—but in the end she had made it.

“My husband means to trap Edward at s'Gravenhague. He will hold him there until he makes up his mind about what should be done. Perhaps, in the end, the duke will hand my brother to the French.”

“No! He would not do that.”

Margaret gripped her friend's hand passionately. “Listen to me, Anne. With this money the king can buy a proper escort: arms and men and horses. My husband will try to avoid meeting Edward. He says he must be seen as uncommitted to either side—the French or the English. But England cannot face another civil war, which will happen if Margaret of Anjou takes back the English throne. Charles is the key. He must meet with Edward and support him, if only to spare the English people. For that, the king must come south. Once he is here, I am certain I can make a meeting happen. But I cannot leave Brugge. You can, however.”

Margaret knew what she was asking. If Charles found out, Anne would suffer for her disobedience of his implied command. And it was a long and dangerous journey on the edge of winter across provinces ravaged by the constant fighting between Burgundy and France. “There is no one else I can trust. Or whom Edward will trust. You will never betray him. He knows that and I know that.”

There was a fluttering in Anne's belly as she nodded, not because she had agreed to go, but because the duchess was right. She was the logical messenger.

A hand touched hers in the dark, and a man laughed. Him. He
was laughing. She turned her head and saw him; he looked down at her so lovingly. Saw him reach out for her; felt it as he kissed her deeply; saw his fingers as they undid the lacing on her gown and…

“Will you go? Anne?” Anne clenched her fingers into fists, nails puncturing her palms. The image of the king had been so real, she could even smell his scent: orris root, sandalwood, and his own personal smell—leather, fresh sweat, and linseed oil from the reins he handled every day of his life…

She sighed and shook her head. “We nearly destroyed each other, your brother and I. I want to help him, dear Christ, so much, and if I sell everything I have, that must be enough. My coin will add to yours. You must find another messenger, Duchess, and I will find another home.” It hurt so badly to think of selling her farm, but, in the end, it was a better way, a stronger response to the hand she'd been dealt. And this way, she need not face the temptation of seeing the king again.

“But, Anne, the king must be told what only I can tell him: he must know my husband's plans or England will be lost. My husband and my brother must meet, they must renew their friendship. Edward has no other allies. You must go; you must. Please consider what I ask.”

Anne de Bohun looked down. There were tears welling in the eyes of Margaret of England, Margaret of Burgundy, and she couldn't bear to see them fall.

There was a long moment of silence, then Anne released a pain-filled breath. “Duchess, I will pray for an answer. If I am told in my prayers that I must go to your brother, then I shall. If not, then I will not be the one to carry this message. And I will sell my farm.”

The duchess rose and Anne saw how sad she was, how lost. Margaret of Burgundy was unused to begging.

“Then I shall pray too,” she said. “For you and for me. And for him. May you receive guidance you can live with.”

Anne curtsied, shivering, as the duchess left her hall. She watched in the gloom of early morning as Margaret mounted the palfrey that her companion, Aseef—a deaf-mute moor and her husband's most trusted servant—held for her. As they cantered
away into the rising light, Anne shut the door of her house and leaned against it, her heart lurching like a creature imprisoned in her chest.

Yes, she must pray again for the guidance she could not supply for herself. This time, perhaps, other gods would give her the answers she sought. Wrapping her shawl tightly around her body, she hurried away. Leif Molnar had been waiting patiently outside the plank door of Anne's workroom to speak to her, but as she walked past him, preoccupied, he hung back in the shadows. He watched her retreating figure thoughtfully. He'd heard every word of the conversation between the two women and he was filled with fear for Anne.

He had been given a task by his master, one he had only partly fulfilled. Certainly, he had vital information now about the duke's intentions toward Edward, and he would make sure that Mathew Cuttifer received it, by the fastest boat to England he could find. But he knew that the duchess's message must reach the king in exile also, for that would surely influence the course of the coming war in England. One woman's life was a small thing to consider at such a time. But Anne de Bohun's life, and her safety and happiness, were not small things to Leif Molnar.

Over the last few days, he'd come to see they never would be.

Lodewijk, sieur de Gruuthuse, governor of the province of Holland on behalf of Charles, duke of Burgundy, smiled at his “guest,” the former king of England, and shrugged apologetically.

“Sire, I am sure that you do appreciate the help these men gave you, but please understand my position and that of the duke, my master. He trusts me with governing this place for him. I keep civil order but for that, the people must have confidence in my rule. How would it look to them if I granted what you ask?”

Edward's bargaining position was weak, he knew, yet while he had lost his throne, he was still a knight. Knighthood, even in these rapacious times, still warranted some obligations—when convenient. “Governor, these are good men made turbulent by violent times. The Frenchman who leads them is a brave man and bears an honorable name. His only foolishness is to have trusted Louis of France. One king has cheated him of his place in the world. This king would restore it.”

The sieur de Gruuthuse bowed. Edward, as gravely, bowed in return. They were old friends, these two. Lodewijk de Gruuthuse—commonly called Louis—had been Burgundian ambassador in England several times over the last twenty years and had known the earl of March, as Edward once had been, since he was a little boy. He'd liked him then, and continued to like him as a man, exiled king or not, though Edward's current situation posed more
than a few problems for him—and burdened him with a secret he could not share with his guest. For his part, Edward was greatly heartened that Louis was governor of Holland and therefore so close to Charles of Burgundy, his brother-in-law. Aristocrats in England had often sneered at the elegant Louis: he might look like a noble, they said, yet he'd made his extraordinary fortune from brewing beer. He'd bought his nobility, rather than earned it on the field of combat. Yet Edward, always interested in trade and merchants and their intriguing creativity, had felt Louis de Gruuthuse had a great deal to teach him about the world. Unlike so many English nobles, Louis did not despise learning for its own sake; he collected books and pictures, and his house in Brugge was more splendid, warmer, and more luxurious than most English palaces. He lived as opulently as a king and Edward, during his various visits to that great trading city, had learned much of civilized living from the man. He'd cultivated tastes that he'd taken back with him to London and that showed in the eventual adornment of his many houses and his own person. Now these two old friends found themselves sparring over the fate of a ragtag band of French and Flemish outlaws.

“My lord, this man and his followers would augment your own personal guard with distinction, I feel certain of that. They have provided me with their service, at some cost to themselves, and I wish to reward them for it by making their lives useful again.” Edward grimaced slightly as he spoke. The wound on his left forearm ached. It was a reminder of the minor mêlée he and his followers had been involved in during the early hours of this morning. The little Frenchman had shown great courage in that same fight.

Julian de Plassy and his men had agreed to provide an escort for the English to the Gevangenpoort, the outer gate of the Binnenhof, to increase their chances of reaching the sieur de Gruuthuse safely. But Louis's men had happened on the English and their escort only two leagues outside the walls of the town. Mistaking them all for outlaws in the half-light, they had fallen on the party.

It was brief but hard fighting, in which Julian de Plassy, Lord Hastings, and Edward had found themselves hand to hand against
Louis de Gruuthuse's men. Then Edward had shouted, in English, “A York, a York, to me, to me,” upon which the baffled Flemish guard had faltered and the English had pressed their advantage into what threatened to become a rout, until the captain of the Flemings had called out in French, “Lord King? We are your friends.” Strange words to use, Edward thought now, when surrounded by groaning, bleeding men.

Now Edward sat in the private chambers of Louis de Gruuthuse, newly bathed, perfumed, and dressed in borrowed clothes according to his station—a sweeping black damasked gown belted with a gem-heavy girdle and worn over part-colored hose, one leg red, one leg blue, with soft black kid half boots embroidered with gold thread.

“I cannot free them,” Louis said. “There would be an outcry, Lord King. Many things I can grant, but this—I fear not.”

Edward settled himself more comfortably against the back of the carved chair he'd been given. Louis sat in its twin. The chairs, each with a Cloth of Estate, had been arranged so that Louis's chair was on a dais slightly lower than that occupied by Edward. The king found that a delicate compliment, considering his current situation.

“Give them to me, therefore. All those whom I gather around me now will have cause to be grateful for the rewards they will receive… later.” He laughed but the laughter was not pleasant.

“Very well, it shall be so. When you decide to return to England, they shall accompany you and I will see that they wear your livery then. However, to placate my people, they must remain in our prison for this time.”

Edward nodded. It was a reasonable compromise. He would make sure the Frenchman and his band were well fed and well housed. He did not want good men made sick by prison fever. They would be no use to him then.

“Could Your Majesty allow me to understand how the situation in England developed?”

Edward grimaced. Ten days, was it? Ten days, and he had no
throne? “Warwick and my—” He had been going to say “my brother,” but it still hurt too much. “Warwick and Clarence—you must know it's been going back and forth between us for these last three years and more. Clarence… well, he's proved to be more amenable to Warwick and his plans after the earl found he couldn't control me. Warwick has married Clarence to his daughter now. Something I could never agree to, for obvious reasons.”

The marriages of the great were always rife with the heaving possibilities of dynastic struggle. Had not Earl Warwick himself been shamed when Edward, his then protégé, secretly married the English lady Elizabeth Gray, née Wydeville, a Lancastrian knight's widow? Louis well recalled that the earl had been planning a grand French marriage for the young king at the time. Furious at being made a fool in the eyes of all Europe, Warwick had quickly turned his attentions toward a more grateful quarter. Rumor said that he'd promised Edward's disgruntled younger brother, George, duke of Clarence, a tilt at his brother's throne. And now the marriage between Isabel and Clarence had cemented that ambitious plan.

“They've gone too far this time, Louis. And it won't get Clarence what he seeks.”

Louis de Gruuthuse agreed. “Rumor has it that Earl Warwick wants to restore the former royal family to the English throne. Is this so?”

Edward swirled the wine of Burgundy in his Venetian glass goblet; it was closer to black than red in this light.