The Uncrowned Queen (24 page)

He knew of just such a man for the king's needs: a Dominican monk who worked with the very poorest in the city of Paris, prescribing only simples and herbs to remedy their afflictions. It was said he was a holy man. A man to whom money meant nothing. He was English, and had a strange Greek name. Brother Agonistes, was that it? Yes. Perhaps the monk would know if the boots had been poisoned or if something else was troubling the king's humors. Please God, let the monk know what should be done, for what would happen if the king died of this new ailment? What would happen to France? Louis was not loved as a king, but he was powerful—and feared. If he died, it would convulse the kingdom; convulse all Europe. Levaux shivered. He didn't pay much attention to politics in the broadest sense, however he did attend to gossip in the palace. And gossip said that Louis was close to overstretching
the resources of France in his support of the English earl of Warwick. Gossip also said that the duke of Burgundy was pitiless, and poised to invade France if he did not get his way in the Low Countries.

The skin on Alaunce Levaux's back tingled and stung as he hobbled on through the busy palace, which was convulsed by preparations for the Christ-mass revels. Please God, let it not be a premonition of the whip. He did not like his master, naturally—how could one like a king?—but he understood him. Louis's father had treated him badly as a boy, and constantly undermined his authority as dauphin when he was older. The nobles, too, had all laughed at Louis, since he had been ill-favored and weak as a child and had grown into an ugly young man. No one had expected the wizened runt to live, much less to rule. But he had, and he did, and that was the way of it.

Born to trouble, both of them: this king and his kingdom. But the English and the Burgundians? They would be worse, far, far worse. It was his duty: he, Alaunce Levaux, must save the king for France, or there would be anarchy and destruction.

“Damnation to him. Perdition. Destruction!” It was a measured chant, punctuated by the work of the little dagger. Once, twice, three times, and once more the silver tip pierced the legs of the doll, joining the legion of little holes already there. But the last thrust was so deep, most of the wood-dust trickled out, leaving one of the legs a little empty, flopping bag.

“Daughter? What are you doing?”

Elizabeth wheeled around, the doll that was the representation of Louis de Valois clamped to her chest. “Hush! Be quiet, Mother. They will hear you.”

Hurriedly, the Duchess Jacquetta hauled the door of the Jerusalem chamber closed behind her. It was heavy and had warped in the wet, cold weather and would not obey her easily; a symptom of so much else in her life. “We must be careful! If you were caught at this, if you were seen, then…”

Elizabeth's eyes glittered in the gloom; the watery green light from the thick glass in the windows lent her skin a corpselike pallor. “I will stop when he is dead, Mother. It is all I can do. Or you, for that matter. You have taught me willingly enough.”

“No! This is too public. Thomas Milling will not shelter you, or me, if he thinks that we are—”

The queen's blue eyes narrowed as she locked glances with her mother. Sometimes the likeness between them was startling.
“What, Mother? Witches? Involved in the black arts?” Elizabeth Wydeville laughed, a genuine melodious peal from deep within her chest. “The abbot is not so worldly to even think such a thing. Why should he? He says mass for us often enough. In his mind, we are two pious ladies in dire circumstances, in need of God's saving grace. And he's right. Besides, your little toy”—Elizabeth brandished the doll; its arms and legs were limp and lolled pathetically this way and that—“is just a plaything. It has no power. We just like to pretend it does.”

The queen sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands. She had spoken the truth and it was too much to bear, too painful. How childlike to pretend that she could harm the mighty king of the French by pricking a doll stuffed with dust from a sawyer's pit. Pathetic! A game, a fantasy. And her mother was right: it was foolish to flaunt such a thing in the abbot's parlor.

Jacquetta dropped a hand to her daughter's shoulder hesitantly. Physical contact between mother and daughter was rare. Unexpectedly, Elizabeth covered her mother's hand with her own. That encouraged the duchess.

“It has served its purpose. Give it to me, child. Can't have them burning you before me.”

There was a certain grim humor in the exchange. In happier times, mother and daughter had laughed about Jacquetta's reputation at court. Persistent gossip whispered the duchess had taught Elizabeth how to bewitch the king, since there could be no other reasonable explanation for his behavior in marrying a woman five years his senior and the widow of a Lancastrian knight, burdened with two small sons. Sighing, the queen held the half-stuffed facsimile of Louis de Valois close to her eyes and gazed into its painted face. “Good-bye, Lord King. May you not fare well.”

“Daughter!” The duchess's tone was sharp.

Without another word, Elizabeth handed the doll to the duchess and averted her eyes as Jacquetta bent to throw the crudely made thing into the flames.

“Oh!”

“What is it, Mother?”

Jacquetta stared, white-faced, at her daughter. “I'm bleeding. Look.” She held out one hand; there was a deep scratch at the base of her thumb, across the mount of Venus, from which fat beads of blood welled and dripped.

The queen snatched the doll back. “Well, well. Not so powerless after all. See!” One of the little silver daggers was sticking, point out, from the doll's belly; it was this that had slashed the duchess. “It is not ready to be burned; it's telling us that. But I must wash your blood from it immediately, Mother, or there will be confusion.”

Jacquetta spoke sharply. “Give it back to me, Elizabeth. For all our sakes, we must burn this thing now or I shall not sleep from fear.”

But Elizabeth was restored to energy and purpose. “It doesn't want to burn; it must do its work first. But it cannot have your blood, I must see to that.”

And Elizabeth Wydeville, the deposed queen of England, hurried from the Jerusalem chamber in a swirl of night-black velvet—deliberately chosen in mourning for her lost kingdom. The queen seemed clothed in a remnant of the night sky so dark that when she moved through the shadows she disappeared, all but her white face, her trailing white veil.

“Daughter, come back. Give me that thing!” But the queen was gone. Unaccountably, the door of the Jerusalem chamber now opened and closed as if on oiled hinges.

There was a legend within
the kingdom of England that the king and queen of fairyland went hunting with their court on nights when the moon was full and the forest quiet. And when they did, the parents of mortal children had best beware; for the king and queen who lived under the hill might take the unwary or unguarded child and ride away with that innocent so they were never again seen by human eyes.

Little Edward's own eyes were huge as spoon bowls when Edward Plantagenet, erstwhile king of England, told him that story. “No. Not me! Not me!” He burrowed down beneath the bedclothes.

“Come out, little one. It's only a story.” Edward tickled his son through the coverlet of the bed, laughing. “The fairies bow to the real monarch of the land. They know you are under his protection.”

The small head popped out from beneath the mound of bedclothes, eyeing the man suspiciously. “I am?”

“Yes. Because the king loves you. You are his firstborn son.”

Anne, who had just entered her son's room, stopped dead from shock as the little boy wriggled out of the bed and into the man's arms.

“You're funny. My daddy wasn't a king. But tell me another story.”

The king looked up as the small boy snuggled into his chest, peacefully sucking his thumb, and smiled. “Another story? We must ask Wissy first.” Wissy was the child's name for Anne; it came from “mistress.”

Anne de Bohun spoke to her son, but would not look at the king. “It was ‘another story' fully an hour ago. Time for sleep.”

Little Edward pouted and opened his mouth to protest, but the king slid the child neatly beneath the covers, pinning his wriggling body tight in the bedclothes with a hand on either side.

“Plenty of time for more stories tomorrow. And the next day, I think.” Edward said it lightly, playfully, but Anne, her back to them both as she tidied the foot of the bed, grimaced. If they didn't hear from Charles tomorrow, perhaps it would indeed be days more.

“You'd better go to sleep now,” the king said. “Sleep brings strength, and you will need that if I'm to teach you how to ride your big blue horse.”

“Not blue. Not really.” But the little boy's words were swallowed in a yawn. One bright eye opened and inspected both the adults. “Kiss? Kiss for Edward? Please?” He said it so winningly that Anne and Edward Plantagenet laughed as freely as all parents do when their child says something charming. But this boy was not acknowledged as his mother's son, or—until now—his father's. Solemnly, Anne and the king each kissed one flushed cheek and smoothed the sheet back as the little boy turned over contentedly, eyes fluttering closed.

“Good night, Wissy. Good night, Big Sir.” It made Edward Plantagenet smile to hear the name he'd been given by his son.

Putting a finger to her lips, Anne picked up the candle beside the little boy's bed and moved quietly out of the room into her own, next door. With exaggerated care, Edward, the former king of England, pulled the door to behind them.

“You're very good with children, Edward. You understand them.” Anne spoke quietly as she looked at him standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Soon it would be suppertime and, with so many to feed, she would be needed in the kitchen.

Edward sauntered toward her, smiling. “No real wonder in that. When I was little, we all tumbled over each other in the nursery. And now, of course, with my girls—” He stopped. Yes, it was true, he loved his daughters. And there would be another child to get to know soon, when he returned to London.

“I'm sure you're a very good father.” Anne tried to smile. It was a brave attempt and he saw it. Compassion flooded Edward's chest.

“And I want to be. For our own son as well.” Gently, he pulled her to him. “I must tell you something, my darling. You will need to be very strong.”

She nodded. “Edward, I know. I know about the new prince. Kitchen gossip.”

He could feel how rigid she was; she could not allow herself to weaken, to break. “And you did not think to speak to me, when you heard?” Anne shook her head. “I did not want to start that conversation. This conversation.” It was hard for her to say the words. He heard the strain in her voice.

“But this is good news, sweet child. It frees us both. England will be safe for him now.” He meant the little boy, so peacefully asleep behind the connecting door into his mother's room.

“How can you say that?” She was angry and he understood. And admired her. Better a strong response than a bitter one.

“Elizabeth has her own son. She does not need yours now.” It was a dark thing to say, a dark acknowledgment of the truth. Elizabeth Wydeville, Edward's wife, was Anne's enemy. The Queen of England had wanted mother and child dead, especially since she'd had no son of her own.

Edward smiled tenderly. “When I have the kingdom back, I want you to come home. I want our son to come home too. I want to see him growing up in his own country. I want to know him, enjoy his company, watch over him as he grows to be a man. I want him to know his sisters. And his brother. And I want you there at court also. By my side. My acknowledged lady. The mother of my acknowledged son. He, and you, will always be safe in my realm.”

Realm. Kingdom. King—and queen. Anne, if she closed her eyes, could see it all as if she were a bird flying the breadth of England, from London over to the West Country. From Westminster—the great hall where she'd seen them together first, Edward Plantagenet and Elizabeth Wydeville, truly the fairy king and queen—from the walls of the city of London, over the green fields and the woods, the gray castles, the neat villages, away to a home she'd never seen. Herrard Great Hall. Her mother's estate—hers now, if she wished to claim it. If she was allowed to claim it.

Anne sighed into Edward's chest, hiding her eyes so that he would not see the hope in them. “Ah, the pictures are pretty ones, my liege. But we've traveled this road before.”

He lifted her face with a finger under her chin and kissed her gently. “You give me strength. You always have. I need that strength.” He placed both hands around her waist, the long fingers close to spanning the distance. “You have not answered me, Anne.”

The girl was suddenly breathless; her back was against the casement and she felt the lead between the glass panes give slightly as he pressed forward.