The Uncrowned Queen (14 page)

Anne, below, bailing beside the men and up to her thighs in water, did not have time to pray, but she felt no fear. She would not die here. Not yet. This was only bad luck and the wrong season. She had not served her purpose.

Yet.

When the
Lady Margaret
entered the pool at Delft, she was listing and damaged. The last part of the blow had swept two men from the deck and broken away a section of the rudder; it asked
much of Leif to bring her to the quay without causing havoc to the carracks, hulks, cogs, and even one great caravel already docked there.

But Delft was serene in the clear night as they tied the
Lady Margaret
to the wharf by what was left of her sternpost and a line from her bow. And Anne, after the fear and the cold of the storm, turned her mind to the next part of their journey. At least she was feeling warmer, having changed into her one dry traveling dress. Her clothes were good without being showy—the kind of garments a lesser merchant's wife might wear. She turned toward the exhausted captain.

“Leif, I have much to thank you for, and amends to make. We stand here tonight because of your great skill and strength. I am very grateful.”

Leif did not speak, his gaze sweeping the deck of his ship. It was a painful sight, one that offended him. He shook his head. “Skill? I doubt my master will regard it as such.”

The
Lady Margaret
was a mess. Giant hands had tried to rip her body apart and, being frustrated, broke all that could be found on deck, most principally the upper structure of the sterncastle.

“Leif, I know the damage will take money and time to mend. I can provide the coin.”

He turned on her, dark-eyed with fury. “I hope he's worth it to the country, lady. And to you. Men died for him today.”

Anne said nothing. The Dane was right: his men had died so that she could reach the king. That was her burden to carry. Another one. But she was exhausted too and felt a spasm in her jaw as her teeth clattered together. They needed food, warmth, and sleep.

“We will speak of this tomorrow. And find men who can do the work while we are”—she stopped herself from naming their destination—“away. Now, do you think we might find an inn that is even a little respectable?”

Leif guided her down the gangplank, the fingers of one hand laced with hers. “Depends on your definition of respectable, lady.”

Anne laughed, she couldn't help it. “Seaports. I remember Whitby some years ago. Don't you?”

He wished she'd not said it, not made him recall; he'd banished
the knowledge of what he felt for her while fighting the storm. Now, on the dark quay, with light spilling from a noisy alehouse as a drunk fell out of the door, abusing those within to whoops of laughter, there was a moment when Anne looked into Leif's eyes and accepted—as she'd not allowed herself to before—that this man was hers, body and bone.

She had to tear her eyes away from his, and found her fingers still clasped in his own: big, strong, and scarred. Hers were tiny in comparison. “I am so sorry for all the trouble, Leif. And for your men.” She uncoupled their hands gently and tried to joke, though there was an odd edge in her tone. “I did not raise that storm. Please believe me.” She intended to be ironic, but her voice broke and suddenly she looked what she was: young, vulnerable, and crushed by responsibility. Pity and compassion fused within the sailor's heart and almost stopped him breathing. Without thought, he reached out to enclose Anne within his arms—to give comfort, to seek comfort—but one look from the girl stopped him. “Food. And warmth?” Her voice was almost under control. She would not let herself take what was offered. To do that would destroy… what? Too much, that was all she knew. Too much. Herself included.

“But why not? Why will you not allow an escort? Five days' hard riding—less, perhaps—and I can be in Brugge and this nonsense will be cleared up. Ten men, Louis, just ten of your men. Or I could take the Frenchmen we brought here. There, you see? An answer that serves us both.”

Louis de Gruuthuse was in a difficult situation. He understood the king's point of view entirely, and all the feasts, all the hunting, all the dancing in the world were not enough to hold Edward Plantagenet now that his son was safely born.

“Sire, my master has asked you to have patience. It is not the right time for you to attempt this journey. The road is far too dangerous and a handful of wolvesheads added to your own men cannot protect you properly once you are past my lands.”

Edward looked at him cynically. “Your lands, Louis? Does my brother-in-law's most loyal servant now think of himself as something more than a steward of the Lowlands?” He was deliberately provocative, determined to disturb the self-possession of his host with any weapon he could find. He succeeded.

A blush seeped upward from beneath Louis de Gruuthuse's high collar; for once his patience broke and he glared at the king. “That is unjust, Your Majesty. I am honored to hold this country for my lord, the duke, your brother-in-law. I am his honest steward, overseer of his lands. I seek nothing more.”

“Oh ho, Louis, so stuffy, so righteous. You count Flanders
among your duke's lands and yet my sister brought that to him as her dowry. Perhaps, since there's no help from him or you, and our old alliance is clearly at an end, I should turn freelance and take it back? I need a base, since neither you nor he will give me one.” The king was deliberately working himself toward anger. He would break Louis's resolve with whatever tools he had to hand.

The sieur de Gruuthuse knew well that he was being provoked, but his innate courtesy was sorely affronted and he took the bait. “Oh yes? And that would mean, let me see, thirty men to take a province?” His voice held just the hint of a sneer.

Real fury brought blood to Edward's eyes. “Thirty men to take a kingdom, if you will not help me, Sieur de Gruuthuse. But, beware. Fail to assist my cause and Burgundy will be crushed!”

The Plantagenets were famous for many things—long legs, great height, great charm—but it was also said they had descended from the Devil's own consort, Melusine, through the female line. Stared down by red eyes in a marble pale face, Louis felt certain that the legend must be true.

The king placed his hand on the great sapphire set in the pommel of his sword. “Choose, Louis. Choose now.”

Louis de Gruuthuse was neither a coward nor a weak man, but he knew of the berserk fury that Edward found in battle. A fury that some said was a gift from God, and others a curse from another source entirely. That engorged rage was personified before him. Edward, on his feet and furious, was a terrifying sight.

Slowly Louis lowered himself to one knee, though he did not bow his head. “Your Majesty, you do yourself no honor in this. I am not your enemy. But you are not my lord. I owe you nothing.”

There was a moment's aghast silence in the room; a silence that hummed like swarming bees. Louis heard the quiet hiss of steel withdrawn from scabbards.

“Yet my lord, Duke Charles, is bound to you by blood. By marriage. I will serve your interests, and those of your family, as I serve his, but I may not give what is not mine to offer.”

“Leave us.” Edward said it quietly, then, since no one moved, bellowed, “
Leave us!
” Primal and percussive, the roar bounced off the walls and men shook their heads to clear the ringing.

Louis nodded to his outraged companions, waving them toward the great doors. Edward, after a moment, tossed his sword to Hastings, who caught it nearly in mid-air. The king wished peace. For now. The two groups of men backed from the hall, silent, dangerous, and watchful. Edward Plantagenet might not be a king anymore but the ferocity of his actions, his utter certainty, told that no one had discussed that fact with him very recently.

“Oh, get up. Go on, man. Rise!”

Louis got to his feet cautiously, his eyes never leaving the king's. Somehow he'd retained an appearance of detached calm, but how he yearned to sob breath into lungs that had almost collapsed from fear and anger. Suppressing that urge, he spasmed into coughing. The king banged hard on his back as he lectured his host.

“I was serious, Louis. If your duke will not see me, and you will not supply me with men, I fear I must take what I can from this country. You cannot expect me to stay mewed up and patient after all this time!” The last words were screamed into the chill air of the chamber and accompanied by a final hearty thump on Louis's back that hurt like a blow. The world held its breath; all sound outside the room ceased. Louis closed his aching eyes. He could see them all in the anteroom as vividly as if he were with them: the English staring at the Flemish, each group daring the other to make the first move.

“Your Majesty, I can do little. It pains me, but it is the truth. You must give my master more time. I beg you, please, do nothing rash.” By which he meant, nothing stupid.

The Binnenhof had once been a great fortress for the Counts of Holland. There were dungeons here still and, though he felt sick at the thought, Louis might yet be forced to offer Edward Plantagenet lodging in one of those deep windowless chambers; an acknowledged prisoner at last, not just a frustrated guest. Would he do it? For a moment, an image of this magnificent man chained to a wall and starving flashed into Louis's head, but he knew the answer as he knew his duty to the duke. Yes, he would do it, if he had to.

The king gripped Louis's shoulder painfully and thrust his
face close. The governor's head swam. He would faint! Then a film of pain descended over the brilliant blue of the king's eyes. “Louis, I beseech you.” The words were whispered; the men outside, straining to hear, caught nothing. The silence filled them with dread; the same emotion that infected the blood of their masters.

De Gruuthuse shrugged and his mouth was stiff as he tried to smile. “Edward, you must be patient. There is nothing more I can offer you. I am your friend and my master wishes to be your friend also. No!” The knight held up his hand as Edward's eyes flew open in rage. “It is the truth! And you must understand. Now is not the time for sudden action. We need more information, all of us, about Louis's plans. You must govern yourself in this, Edward. Nothing would please that spider more than to see you ride out from here, underattended, underarmed, so that he may scoop you up and destroy you! Where would your country be then?”

“My country? My country does not want me or need me. My people will not care, perhaps.”

It was said. All the fear, the uncertainty, and the terror had found a voice at last.

Louis smiled, the kind of smile a father gives a beloved son when the boy first challenges his sire's physical powers. “Lord king, that is not true. You and I both know that the greater magnates of your realm will wait, very patiently and carefully, to see if it is worth committing to the cause of Warwick. Especially now you have a son and the succession is safe.”

It puzzled Louis de Gruuthuse that the king burst into laughter at those words, laughing until he gasped and nearly choked. “Yes, I have a son. The son I've always wanted!”

The tone was odd; it seemed that the king was desolated by loss, rather than joyful at his good fortune. Louis ignored the strangeness; Edward was, after all, at breaking point.

“You must trust my master. If you can find faith in his goodwill toward you, there is much to hope for regarding his support. Come, I feel certain that the feast is prepared. Perhaps you are hungry? I believe I could eat, if only to settle my stomach.”

Louis attempted this little joke to raise the king's spirits. But Edward Plantagenet had other thoughts. He shook his head.

“No, Louis. I wish to pray. Can you arrange for a priest to say a mass?”

“A thanksgiving mass for the birth of your son? I thought we were to do that tomorrow.”

The king nodded. “Yes, tomorrow we will give thanks for my new son. This mass is for me, now. For strength. And that I may bring confusion to my enemies. Of which I have more than all the grains of sand in the sea.”

“Which way is s'Gravenhague, young sir?”