The Innocent (37 page)

There was a certain low breathiness in her voice that made the king smile; he liked it when the queen had the wit to joke with him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Anne was making sure to be particularly busy handing delicacies to the queen’s favorites, her face carefully impassive. Smiling, he raised his voice so that she would be sure to hear him. “Alas, not for food, Lady Queen. I am but a poor knight who has lost his way and may not partake of earthly food again until I have fulfilled a vow, laid upon me by my lady love.” To the great delight of his court, the king cast himself, groaning, before the queen. But for a moment, unseen by the crowd, his eyes found Anne’s though she looked as quickly away.

Unconscious of the byplay, Elizabeth laughed brightly and proudly. Let the court mock; here again was proof of the king’s great love for her. “Sir knight, I am queen of this winter land and I have the power to release you from the vow imposed by your cruel lady. You have but to speak and I shall listen…”

The court entered into the spirit of the game with gusto, calling, “Speak, sir knight. You do not hunger in vain…”

Hastings watched the pretty charade with a certain cynicism. The king was clever to distract the court from Anne with the smokescreen of his attentions to the queen. As ever, Edward’s enjoyment of this new sexual hunt was intense; William had seen the look flicked toward Anne, if others hadn’t. The joy of this contest would be deepened by the privacy that his ever-loyal chamberlain would help to contrive, but it never hurt to set the hounds running on the false trail of renewed attention to the queen

—and that was Edward’s business now. William understood. With such serious events afoot, the distraction of women was pleasant for a short time.

The king still lay groaning. “Alas, alas. I thirst and yet I may not drink. I hunger and may not eat unless I have fulfilled my vow.”

The court obligingly took their cue and chanted back, “The vow, the vow. Tell us the vow.”

The king knelt in front of Elizabeth and yet, for those with eyes to see, it seemed, for a moment, as if he looked just slightly over the queen’s shoulder, seeking someone else entirely. “I vowed to find the fairest lady in all the land, whose beauty eclipses the moon and falling snow, and kiss her sweet lips…”

Only Hastings saw that Anne had moved well away from the royal couple now; anyone else who saw her go would find nothing amiss in a servant hurrying away, perhaps to obey an order from the queen.

“…and she would give me a token that I might bring to the lady of my quest, to prove that all my tasks had been accomplished. Long I searched, broad lands I traveled, and fair damsels met in full measure but none was so fair as the moon, or falling snow. I grew thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker, and I despaired of ever finding such a one…yet now, my heart is alive with hope for I dare to believe that she whom I sought stands before me.”

There it was again, that searching look, almost brazen this time, and the queen frowned for a moment.

Was the king distracted? A warm laugh from Edward reassured her as he pantomimed being blinded by her beauty.

“Ah, the perilous beauty of the Winter Queen—I hardly dare contemplate this peerless face! May I presume to kiss this fair white hand, O lady of fatal grace?”

The queen giggled happily, holding out one hand, and the king kissed it lovingly. William Hastings sauntered forward to play his part. Quietly, he stepped up to the queen and handed her a little packet.

Delighted, she unwrapped it quickly and flourished it for all the court to see.

“Ah, sir knight, you have fulfilled your vow and now you have your token.” The queen handed Edward an oval medal, very cunningly engraved with her face in profile, suspended from a golden chain. And hanging below the badge there was a crystal vial stopped with a ruby, and inside that, a lock of golden hair.

The king sprang to his feet, kissed the medal and the queen heartily, and cried, “Thank God for that. At last we eat!”

Shouts of good-humored laughter lapped around them as he escorted Elizabeth to tables burdened with

“simple” food of the forest. Hot venison pies with carved pastry lids, pike fritters with saffron and pepper, stewed waterfowl and fresh, fine white bread to sop up the juices, all washed down with hot mulled ale and warm wine. The servants were kept running between the fires and the tables as the ravenous courtiers descended like the plagues of Egypt, consuming the best this winter kingdom could offer.

Anne, too, was kept busy, with no time to eat, much less think. Jehanne saw to it that she was assigned to one of the lesser tables crammed with the queen’s relations, rather than the table at which Elizabeth and Edward sat. Anne was grateful to Jehanne because, try as she might to avoid looking at Edward, his eyes still sought her out. Time was pregnant with his patience; he had the nerve to play this game out, she knew that. Anne had to steel herself to concentrate on the task she had been given. Surely filling her mind with the actions of her hands would give her the strength she needed, the strength to fight her sinful passion and learn to look on the king for who he was, not the man she loved? She would not give in, could not give in; he was wily, she saw that now—each warm look he threw toward her said as much.

And she laughed at her own naïveté. Had she really been frightened for him? The dreadful dreams, the vision today—overheated lust was the answer and the cause, and that could be banished with hard work, much prayer, and penance! Then, in the midst of her work, she looked up to see him watching her, and the loving look on his face nearly undid all her fierce, good intentions. No! She had to concentrate on other things—and she would!

Lord Rivers was astonished therefore, and agreeably surprised, by the attentive service he received that day. It seemed he had no more than to look up and his cup was filled. No more than inspect the tasty dish being offered to one of his neighbors but that it was offered to him. And all from the remarkably pretty girl dressed in his daughter’s colors, who seemed to have made it her mission in life to please those whom she waited on. And so gracefully too. It gave him pleasure to watch her move so adroitly around his table, as if she were part of a complicated dance in some tableau.

So much so, he decided he would ask his daughter for the girl’s services after Christmas. As a New Year’s gift perhaps. God knew, his wife was hard to please—that’s where Elizabeth got it from, of course—but the duchess had not been happy lately with all the nasty rumors flying around the court and this might cheer her up. Perhaps he could soften Elizabeth to his will by approaching the king first?

Yes, that might be a good plan, he thought complacently as he accepted yet another piece of lark and goose pie, and looked over toward Edward and his daughter. But then he saw the king watching the girl as well.

And then he remembered all over again his instinct on the night that Moss had presented this same girl to the queen. Very odd that had been. Moss had a reputation for sexual dalliance to rival the king’s—

before he’d married of course. Yet, if he remembered it rightly, it had almost seemed as if the doctor was making a gift of this girl to his son-in-law. He frowned. And there it was, that look again, from the king to the girl. He was too interested. Better move quickly on this, he thought, don’t want anything unseemly to mar Elizabeth’s triumphal progress.

Chapter Twenty-six

It was Christmas Eve and the half-built Chapel of Saint George, to be dedicated to the Knights of the Garter, glowed like a massive lantern, though building materials still lay everywhere. By special license of the king the court had been allowed to see and worship in his partly made masterpiece, the building he had commissioned and passionately overseen, for this one night. So many man-sized wax candles had been lighted that the vast space felt slightly warm, a miracle since it was still partly unroofed. And then during vespers, snow began to fall gently but insistently, sprinkling the fine clothes of the courtiers. As the carter had predicted, winter would close in this night.

The world outside the castle was silent, black and white, drained of all color, as the flakes fell faster and faster and piled higher and higher around the dark walls of the keep. Massive drifts rose around the little houses of the town and the roads choked. The river, too, froze, the first time that men could remember it; even the oldest gaffer in the village said it hadn’t happened in his time. And around the great trees in the forest there was a pathetic sight: sparrows frozen to death as they roosted in the branches, lying on the ground.

So the world held its breath and waited for the Christ child to be born, and even the most cynical of the courtiers found themselves silent and attentive as the ancient, familiar words were read out from the Bible. Some few of the literate courtiers could even understand what the priest was saying because they had enough Latin.

Near the front of the new chapel, behind the king, William shuffled impatiently as he brushed snow from his shoulders. A long time ago he’d decided that religion was useful for keeping the people in their place but that was about all. He was disgusted by the extent to which many English church institutions had been corrupted by the shameless venality and extravagance of the papal court. And Rome was also the greediest landlord, in England and in Christendom at large. It offended him that a man he’d never met in a faraway country owned nearly a third of his own country, paid no taxes for its use, and allowed his clerks to live so scandalously. Hastings shivered. In time, there would be a reckoning for everything, he felt it in his bones, and moments like tonight when the message of the church—of innocence, of salvation, of justice for all, and truth—was so far from the day-to-day reality only made him angrier.

Still, there were other, more pressing things to think about. After the Mass was finished he’d have to capture the king’s attention long enough to tell him about Mathew Cuttifer. All the news from the north was bad and Edward would have to move fast to raise an army, covertly, in time for even a glimpse of better weather and a raid on Warwick’s stronghold. For that he would need money from his people—

which was why William had asked Mathew to travel to the Christmas Court from London. He’d just arrived this afternoon in a wherry rowed by four nearly frozen watermen, an hour before the river iced solid.

Hastings knew that Mathew was the key to unlocking the purses of the wealthy London merchants; they’d support the king in return for…what? Their price was what William needed to find out, and quickly.

William did not know of another visitor to the castle, however; one who was just as fervently expected, though much less powerful. For all that, she harbored a secret that was overdue in the telling, a secret that might have the power to transform or destroy Edward’s reign.

Deborah had been surprised when, three days before Christmas, an old friend of hers, Alan the Tinker, had arrived at her small, snug cottage. Though people in the village knew the location of her house and physic garden, and sought her out as a healer, she took care to live quietly. Being known as a healer, locally, was to her benefit, for it brought in a little extra to the pot, but she knew that curing people and animals might be construed as sorcery by unthinking outsiders, so she was not unhappy that few outside the village knew where to find her. Alan, though, was one of that few, and welcome because he brought news of the world on his visits, while he mended her tools and pots and pans.

She’d always paid in kind for the work he did for her and the efficacy of her remedies kept him coming back, for he did well from selling on small stoppered jars of her simples. There were syrups for the winter ague made from honey, rosemary, and juniper, and spirits of wine. When the milk would not let down after childbirth there was dried milk thistle and betony to be made up into a hot poultice to apply to the breasts. For fever in small children there was a simple made from the bark and leaves of willows, and, best of all, a creamy, sweet-tasting mixture for colic that mothers cherished because their children would swallow it without complaint. And for men who had troubles with their heart, Deborah made pellets from foxglove pounded with hawthorn berries that thinned the blood. This remedy was famous on Alan’s rounds. Many a fat miller or priest had been saved by Deborah’s pellets melting under their tongues, easing the pain that shot down their arms and across their chests. Though often, of course, they put survival down to their favorite saints and made vows to go on pilgrimage for their soul’s sake.

This cold day, Alan had had something for Deborah: a little scrap of vellum covered in badly formed characters. She’d read it in the light of the fire with the aid of a piece of a lens he’d brought her the year before last. Her sight had been getting worse lately. As she’d followed the words, her expression had changed to something like fear, which had surprised the tinker very much. Then, quickly, she had thrown a couple of clean kirtles into a drawstring bag of skin and, at the last minute, an unexpectedly beautiful dress of mulberry-colored brocade with a tall hennin, swathed in gauzy silk veiling, which she wadded with clean undershifts to protect from damage.

Then, wrapping herself in a thick but much-darned traveling cloak, she and Alan had ridden off together on his sturdy cob, leading his packhorse. They had both known it would be a very cold journey east as they rode toward Windsor, and there was no telling if they’d arrive before the weather beat them, but after an achingly stiff ride, Alan and she had reached the gates of the castle on Christmas Eve, nearly frozen, just before the snow.

“Who is it you want?” asked the not-unkind sergeant of the guard when he saw how cold the woman was.

“I’m to ask for Sergeant Cage. He’s expecting me.”

It took an hour or so to track Sergeant Cage down. The whole castle was celebrating the impending birth of the Savior, green branches of fir and holly were being hung all over the vast building with an agreeable level of chaos, and the place was huge—one individual was never easy to find, unless you knew for certain where to look. However, to honor the conviviality of the season, the sergeant of the guard allowed the woman and the tinker to thaw in front of the fire in the guardhouse of the outer ward.