The Uncrowned Queen (52 page)

This night, the familiar was suddenly strange. In the daylight it was easy to find the twisting stair that descended to the hall. Night was different and there were no torches to show him the way. He ran, ran on, through the flashing darkness, through the rain gusting from the arrow slits and, at last, at last, his feet found the first tread of the stairs. But there was darkness in the stairwell and suddenly the certainty was overwhelming. They'd gone, they'd all gone to London and left him here. The crashing began again—the giants were coming closer. Edward screamed and covered his eyes with his fingers.

Below, there was chaos and noise in the great space of the hall as rain blew through the opened door, ripping the one piece of arras Anne still owned from its hooks. Struggling with its weight and the power of the storm, Anne felt her skirt lift and billow as she tried to close the door behind the cloaked and dripping man who'd been pounding on it.

“Leif!”

“Yes, lady. Here, I can do this.” It was a big door and a huge wind but Leif leaned into them both. The door closed on the howling night and there was almost silence.

“Wissy? Where are you?”

The cry of her child struck Anne's heart. Snatching a torch from one of the sconces, she ran toward the stone staircase. Questions could wait.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she soon found her son. He was slumped, a small shivering bundle, on one of the stair turnings, and though he was trying not to cry, his little pale face and terrified eyes told the story. Shoving her torch in a sconce, Anne stumbled on her skirts in her haste to gather the small body into her arms.

“I was trying to save you but I thought you'd gone. I thought you'd left me alone.” Frantic, Edward hid his face in the bodice of Anne's gown when the thunder pealed again. “Make it go! Make it go away!”

A massive shadow wavered up from below, the head a grotesque blob followed by a huge, dark shape. Edward looked up and screamed, “The giant!” The turning of the stair had hidden Leif Molnar from sight; now the light he held preceded him. A
flash from the storm captured the child's fixed, staring eyes. For one moment he looked like a corpse, dead from terror.

“Is the boy…?” Leif's heart lurched. He would not say the word.

“No! He just hates storms.”

Edward burrowed more tightly into Anne's shoulder. She chose to ignore what she saw in Leif's eyes as she rocked her son, speaking softly. “There's nothing to fear, my darling, nothing to harm you.” Distantly, the sky muttered, the thunder moving away. “See, it's nearly gone, and we have a visitor. Your friend, Leif.”

The little boy spoke, not daring to look up. “Not a storm giant?”

The Norseman went down on one knee; his head was level with the child's. “Have you forgotten me, Edward? That would make me sad.”

Little Edward sat up slowly and looked at the man in awe. “Are you a giant, Leif? You look like a giant.”

The Norseman shook his head, smiling, but his gaze was fixed on the woman. “Give me this boy, woman. There are things we must speak of. It is time for him to understand the thunder, and his own fear.”

Leif handed his torch to Anne and opened his arms to the child. Edward allowed himself to be scooped up and Anne walked down behind them. The two torches she carried cast the shadows of the man and the boy into the hall before them.

And Deborah was there, waiting, as the fire climbed high in the chimney and the flames rushed up to meet the dark night sky.

It was late and little
Edward was sleepy, resting against Leif's chest. There was a story, a long, long story, and he was at peace.

“Thor commands the thunder, Boy. And the storm. They are both his servants. You have nothing to fear because Thor watches over me, and since I watch over you, therefore he is your guardian also.”

That made Edward's heavy eyes flick open. “But you said he was a war god?”

Leif shifted the child's weight slightly, settled him in the crook of one great arm and drew a fold of his cloak around the little body. “That is true. But I am a fighter; so, too, are you.”

Edward chuckled. “A fighter? Me?”

Leif nodded gravely. “Certainly. You showed courage tonight. A coward would have stayed in bed, under the sheets, but you were brave. You faced the storm to help your aunt. As a fighter, all you need is technique. It will be my job to help with that. When you are grown, you will be taller and stronger than I am.”

Edward's eyes were wide open now. He laughed—a bright sound in the dark hall. “But you are a storm giant!”

Leif laughed too. “Even so. Now, I was telling you about the thunder. When you hear it sound and see the sky torn apart, well then, you know your guardian is close by. So that even if I am not here with you, you know you are protected. Storm and thunder are the God's preserve. Mortals cannot control that: not your mother, and not me.”

Edward's eyes fluttered closed, feathery lashes resting on his cheeks. “My mother?” The little boy yawned hugely. “I've never seen my mother. She died.”

Leif's glance crossed Anne's as she sat embroidering by candlelight. She saw him form the words, saw him say them, though no sound came from his mouth to disturb the drowsy child. “No. Your mother lives.”

There was space between them, four paces at most; space they could cross, if they chose to.

But Anne dropped her gaze, attentive to her sewing, and he, after a moment, wrapped the boy more tightly and stood, ready to carry the sleeping child up to his bed again. And they said not one word more that night.

“Why did you come?”

The Norseman shrugged. “You needed me. You need someone to look out for your interests here.”

“But your work for Sir Mathew…?”

“You are his concern also. Sir Mathew wants me here.” Leif yearned to say, “Do you?” But something stopped him. Confidence; he'd never been confident with women.

Anne, well aware of what he had not said, picked another quince. She and Leif were in the neglected orchard outside the walls of the Hall, gathering fruit into reed baskets. This hot, early summer had nearly broken the boughs with ripe fruit already, the season forced by more than a month. Apples, peaches, quince, medlars; Deborah and Anne would soon be busy preserving and drying—if Anne chose to stay.

Climbing down from the tree as Leif held the ladder steady, Anne loosened the straps that held the basket on her back. He lifted the weight from her and she sighed with relief, flexing cramped shoulders; she felt real satisfaction as she looked at their progress.

“One, two, three, four, five, six… I believe we have near twenty baskets filled, Leif. And we've hardly touched the trees at the back. All those apples yet to be picked—what a thought.”

She was laughing; once she'd thought nothing of such hard physical work, but her muscles were protesting today. And her throat was very dry. Leif smiled and held out a leather flask.

“Here. Drink.”

The deep green grass beneath the oldest of the pear trees was inviting, it was true, but there was so much to do. Fortuna and her bull calf would do well on such fodder—grass and windfalls; she must remember to mention it to Deborah.

“Anne?”

“Yes?”

“Stop thinking. Sit. The fruit won't go away. We've still got hours of light today.”

She smiled at Leif and sat down beside him. He was a kind companion and friend and, he was right, of course: she needed his help. In so many things.

Closing her eyes against the hot light, she swallowed heartily from the offered flask; their own ale, the first they'd brewed in this place. Thirst made it taste like nectar. Wiping her hand across her mouth, she handed him the bottle. “Do you have advice for me, Leif?”

For a moment he too drank and she watched his strong, brown throat as it worked.

“This is good, lady. You have the touch. With ale at least.” He smiled and so did she, but he had not answered the question.

To cover the moment, Anne removed one of Deborah's pies from its linen wrapping. It was big enough for several men. “Are you hungry?” She'd asked him the wrong question and she blushed. What had possessed her? She knew what his answer, his true answer, would be.

With a wicked smile, Leif reached across her body for the large wedge she'd cut. “Of course.” They were sitting very close, close enough for her to smell the fresh sweat of him. “I'm always hungry.”

Anne dropped her eyes as she cut a piece of the pie for herself; she was confused by her feelings for this man and talking only made it worse. She cleared her throat and spoke, unnecessarily loud, in the humming, buzzing warmth of the orchard. “So, you will not give me guidance?”

Leif shook his head, chewing slowly, his eyes on her face. “You wouldn't accept what I'd say, lady.”

She flashed him a glance. “That's not fair. How can you know that?”

He smiled and took another bite of the pie. “I know you, lady.”

Anne had no reply. She brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood, untying her hair kerchief to mop her hot face. There was a small stream at the edge of the orchard, one of the reasons the trees had been placed where they were. Water close by meant good fruit.

“Give me the flask, if you've finished the ale. I'll fill it with water.”

Leif smiled lazily as he held the leather bottle up to Anne. She leaned down to grasp it but then, as her fingers touched it, he jerked it away. Trying to catch it, she unbalanced and tumbled down, across his lap. “So, lady, would you like me to tell you the truth?”

Now she really was confused, and breathless, her torso across his, her breasts against his body.

“That's really not fair, Leif.”

He caught her hands as she wriggled, trying to twist away from him. She was breathing fast, so was he.

“Let me go.”

“Only if you hear me out.”

She was fit and strong but he was much more than her match, holding her effortlessly, relentlessly tighter.

“Say yes, Anne.”

“To what?” Her heart was jolting now, but there was no fear.

“To the truth.” And then, just because he could, he kissed her.

She wasn't shocked, but she was rocked by the impact of him as his lips touched hers. He relaxed as he kissed her, so, without thought, she freed one hand and hit him hard in the chest. “No!”

He laughed. “Yes!” And kissed her again, catching the errant hand easily. Her world buzzing, light colliding with dark, she kissed him back. And in that moment, when all the certainties of her world were shaken to the core, Anne de Bohun made up her mind. She had to go to London. She had to know.

“I need to say good-bye to him. I cannot leave it unresolved.”

Her foster mother stirred the vat of quinces steadily, evenly, being careful not to break the fruit. “Why? There's a peaceful life to be had in this place.”
Leif has returned to us. Stay for his sake and your own
. That was what Deborah wanted to say.

Anne turned away from Deborah's direct glance. She felt the heat rise to her face as she shook her head. “I cannot have peace in this place. Not unless the king permits it. I returned without his permission and he could force us into exile again.”

Deborah turned back to the simmering fruit. “He'd have done that by now, if he meant to do it at all.”

Anne scooped out the muslin bag of precious nutmegs, cloves, and cinnamon quills with a long spoon, laying it carefully to one side for drying and reuse. “He's still the king. I disobeyed him when I returned to England.”

The steam rising from the liquid was perfumed and rich. One last stir and Deborah tapped her own spoon on the rim of the three-legged pot. “He wasn't on the throne then. He's king again now, but she's still the queen. New prince or not, there will be danger in London. From them both.”

“I will make an agreement with the king and try to reach an accommodation with Elizabeth, if I can. It's the only way to secure our future here.” Anne began sorting sound fruit from bruised in
the basket of unpeeled quinces as Deborah sat down beside her and picked up her paring knife.