The Innocent (50 page)

She had her own family and household to protect, not just her mysterious guest.

Meanwhile, Deborah said nothing, but quietly seated herself beside the fire, twirling a spindle and winding the thread with hypnotic rhythm. Anne whirled around to confront her.

“Deborah, did you see this?”

“I’ve been given nothing, though I’ve tried to see often enough since we’ve been here.” Deborah’s tone was grim.

Anne could not trust herself to speak as pictures, unasked, crowded her own mind: frightened faces, drawn swords, blood—and the sound of crying, so real it might have been from a man, or a woman, standing there beside her. She was back in the battlefield of her dream, back in the dream of Edward.

She shivered. The Feast of Saint Valentine loomed and she was going back to London, to the king, and a battle of another kind.

London was a buzzing hive and the palace in a rushing bustle as the small party of soldiers escorting Anne and Deborah arrived close to vespers. The women were hurried into the palace by one of the lesser-used gates near the river and, once inside the warren of buildings, taken to a small, sparsely furnished suite of rooms. A silent servant deposited wooden buckets of hot water together with linen towels as the captain of the escort pointed to a large wooden coffer and nodded to Anne.

“For you, Lady.” He left, and both women heard the key turn in the lock.

There was an exquisite dress carefully folded inside the coffer, and as Deborah shook out the tissue-of-gold bodice, the lustrous black velvet skirt sewn all over with pearls, a small vellum packet sealed with plain red wax fell to the floor. Breaking the seal, Anne found a simple message: “Hurry, I dream of you.” It was signed with one word, “Edward.”

Anne looked at Deborah in confusion.

“He doesn’t know?” Deborah grimaced, but agreed that this was a lover’s note, not that of a vengeful king.

Anne laughed shakily. There was irony in the beautiful dress, the longing behind his words; all the way on their freezing journey south she had been tossed between passion and dread. Longing to see the king, dread of what he would say to her. Now, as the hairs stood up on the nape of her neck, she forced herself to think what this clandestine meeting would mean. He meant them to be lovers—the game was over. Or perhaps it was beginning in earnest.

Very well. He had unwittingly provided her with the clothes and it would not take long to transform her into the semblance of a king’s daughter…

Both women heard the key turn once more, then the door was thrown open by Doctor Moss. At last, a friend! Anne smiled a relieved welcome.

“Doctor Moss! How good it is to see you.” For a moment the man looked uncomfortable, yet he bowed gracefully, and smiled charmingly.

“I should like the opportunity to speak with you a little later, Mistress Anne, but you are expected and we must hurry.”

Moss swung a black velvet cloak around Anne’s shoulders, adjusting the hood so that it covered nearly all her face, then stood back and bowed for her to accompany him, waving Deborah back into the room. When Anne went to protest Moss shook his head. “No. This is a meeting for you alone.”

Again that note of discomfort. He would not meet her eye, and fear contracted Anne’s gut as if she had been punched in the belly. Suddenly she understood: Moss had his own game running and was not to be trusted. Wit alone would save Deborah and herself; and so she said not another word as she matched her pace to his.

Very quickly Anne saw that they were avoiding the most populated parts of the vast building of Westminster. In the distance she could hear music and shouting; somewhere there was a feast and, for a moment, nostalgia swept over her. They’d all be there, she supposed, Jehanne, Evelyn, even Rose. She shook her head impatiently, grimacing. Things had reached a pretty pass, indeed, if she was nostalgic for Rose!

Soon they arrived at the top of a flight of stairs in an ancient, little-used part of the palace. Before them was an oak door that Doctor Moss knocked at once, then twice, then once again. The door opened and there stood Edward, tall and magnificent, dressed in tawny velvet and glittering with jewels. He stood back, unspeaking, his eyes roaming Anne’s face and body for one long moment, the expression on his face unreadable.

“Leave us, Moss.” His voice filled the girl’s head like the sound of the sea. She didn’t even notice the doctor close the door as he left.

“The cloak, Anne. Take it off.” The king’s tone was strange, constrained, but somehow she found the strength to stand straighter, to look at him directly, though her heart was running faster than a hind at the hunt. Silently she undid the silk cord at her neck and dropped the garment from her shoulders. The king’s breath exhaled in one long, slow sigh.

The silence stretched between them as he ambled toward the braziers that stood on each side of a magnificent bed made up with high soft pillows and a purple velvet coverlet. Holding out his hands to warm them, he spoke with his back turned to her.

“Why did you run away from me, Anne?”

It was hard not to look at the bed when she answered him. “Sire, it was clear I could not stay.”

She closed her eyes—she could not help herself; and saw the pictures. She and he, together, naked…

He turned to look at her. “Have you thought of me since last we met?”

She almost smiled.

“I have tried not to, sire.”

Casually, he sauntered toward her.

“And why is that?”

She was smiling now, but it was very hard.

“You know why.”

He was closer to her now—if she chose to, she could touch him.

“I dreamed of you. All night. All day.”

That was like a knife in her side. “Then, sire, I am so sorry for you. Truly sorry.”

The exchange between them was measured, deliberate—volley and countervolley—and both of them knew it was a prologue. But to what?

“Anne, do you remember the wager we made?”

Close. Closer yet.

“Yes.” She offered nothing more.

His voice was low. “The Feast of Saint Valentine. You made me a promise.”

“Sire, it was your wager, not mine.”

“But you agreed. The tourney is close, so close, and tonight, I think…I will test your resolve.”

Like fire, like pain, he obliterated the tiny space between them instantly, and in one burning moment, one trembling breath, he pulled her in to his body and, gods help her, Anne responded, kissing him so deeply, matching him moment for aching moment until—her body locked rigid.

“No.”

There was a tiny sound: a faint and delicate hiss as a brazier exhaled and the coals burned sudden red.

They were apart now. He had his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes.

“How can you be so disloyal to your king?”

“I am disloyal to another king. To my father.”

“Your father? I thought you had no father?”

A cold finger touched Anne’s heart. There was a moment of choice and she could have stayed silent, but…she’d gone too far now. Out of fear? Out of pride? There was complete silence for a moment, then she sighed.

“No, Edward. My father is alive.” She used his name deliberately.

He said nothing for one long moment, then a wary smile touched his lips. “Who is your father, Anne?”

He said it very softly.

“Henry VI. The king that was.” She was looking at him straight, unsmiling, unblinking. After being fatherless for so long she would not lie about her descent now.

There was silence. And then he smiled at her again, yet it was bleak, so bleak. “And so, Henry V is your grandsire, yes?”

Anne nodded—just one nod.

The meaning of that nod was a charged current between them.

Another frozen moment and then the king began to laugh. And laugh and laugh. Great gusts that rang around the room. But then he stopped quickly and seized her face between both his hands, turning it to the light of the windows and the fires. First one side, then the other, looking at her as if to learn each feature for all time. Her hands flew to his but though she was physically strong, she was not stronger than he, and they were both breathing hard—with anger now, not passion.

“I see nothing here that tells me who you might be.” He was very controlled. “Unless you are a traitor.”

“Traitor? No. I want nothing from you, but there is proof. Letters. Everything I have said is true, and if I am harmed, or any of my people, those letters will be given to someone who is not your enemy now but will be should you deal with me unkindly.”

He dropped his hands as she played her bluff, utter certainly in her words. But now Anne saw Edward’s real power for the first time. His face was very cold, eyes of black jet looked down on her indifferently.

“Be careful, lady, be very careful. I know how to deal with plots against my throne. Moss!”

A moment and Moss was inside the door with them.

“Moss, you played me a trick. This woman is a traitor. Secure her.”

The king stamped out of the open door past the stunned Doctor Moss, his face shut and fierce but very pale. Buying time to gather his wits, Moss bowed to Anne and stood back, indicating she should precede him out of the door.

Without acknowledging Moss’s presence, Anne swept up the black cloak and tossed it to him, her gesture plain: she would not hide her face this time.

Moss tasted fear in his mouth, like acid, as he led Anne back to her rooms. He’d returned Anne to the king, but in this he had, unwittingly, overreached himself. But how?!

When Anne disappeared from court, Moss, being suspicious, had become convinced she’d used Mathew Cuttifer’s help to hide from the king, with Jehanne’s active assistance. Careful bribes within Blessing House had told him what he needed. Mathew Cuttifer had clandestinely sent his wife’s previously unknown “cousin” and her woman to his lands in the north; and the cousin’s description matched Anne’s. This was explosive information.

Yet events were moving fast at court, including the queen’s pregnancy. Elizabeth was close to five months and her condition was swiftly becoming complicated, just as it had been with the last child. As the queen sickened, she cast around to blame someone, anyone, for her fear and discomfort. Moss was the logical candidate. He bought time by deflecting the queen’s ire onto Jehanne, but knew he needed help to manage this pregnancy and secure his place. Specifically, he had to have Anne’s knowledge of simples and painkillers at his service, so her importance to him doubled. He played his card. He let Edward know that Mathew Cuttifer was helping Anne to remain in hiding.

The king, refusing to believe Anne had been taken willingly out of his life, was enraged. He’d summoned Mathew and threatened him: produce Anne quickly and his life, and commercial interests, would be spared. Fail in this, and every particle of his trade, every monopoly he controlled, would be utterly destroyed by the servants of the Crown, on precise instructions from their king. He’d stopped short of carrying out his threats because he still needed the merchant’s support against the uprising he feared—and Mathew was the key to keeping the London guilds on his side—but his sword hovered over Blessing House, and all under that roof knew it.

Poor Mathew. Clarence was outwardly returned to favor and court gossip said that fragile harmony was now restored between the king and Warwick. What could he do? Though Anne had not seen them, he had the letters that proved her identity, but so far as he knew, no one else, certainly not the king, knew of their existence, and how could he reveal them now? This was a terrifying game, but he had allowed it to begin.

And Moss, meanwhile, had no idea how high the stakes had risen. Several times he tried to speak to Anne as they hurried through the darkened palace together, but she refused to respond, though, from time to time when he addressed her, she glanced at him silently. Her look, compounded of contempt, anger, and yes, pity, unsettled him profoundly, as did the king’s last words.

Traitor? How could Anne be a traitor unless she’d refused to go to bed with Edward and the king had taken it savagely amiss. Something, Moss knew, that was much unlike Edward’s usual attitude where women were concerned. Normally, he shrugged and moved on to the next willing girl.

It was late now and the palace was shutting down, preparing for the night. As he and Anne climbed the last set of stairs leading to the rooms she’d been assigned, he heard a girl’s voice call out, “Anne! Anne, is that you?” And before he could prevent it, he watched helplessly as Anne turned and then ran toward Evelyn, her closest friend from among the queen’s servitors.

It was hard to know who was the most shocked. Anne clung to the other girl for a moment wordlessly, but then she collected herself, stood back and smiled warmly.

“Evelyn. Don’t be fearful. See, I’m back.” But the other girl just stared at her, speechless, eyes huge in her white face. Anne laughed shortly. “No, I’m not a ghost…Evelyn, for my sake, say something!”

Evelyn flicked a glance at Doctor Moss as he reached out to take Anne’s arm, but before she could reply, Anne turned on him, all the suppressed terror she had experienced in the last few days distilling into white rage. “How dare you.” It was barely a whisper, but the raw power behind her words hit them both like a blow and Anne’s shadow suddenly seemed immense on the walls behind them—flickering, threatening to engulf them both. Evelyn covered her eyes with a sob as Moss dropped his hand, shaken.

“I thought you were dead.” Evelyn finally managed to gasp the sentence out. “You disappeared—and there were rumors…and the queen became so ill. Then, Dame Jehanne…” She dropped her hands, looked up at Anne, suddenly without the words to say it.

Fear congealed in Anne’s chest, a massive icy lump. “Where is she, where is Dame Jehanne?”

But it was Doctor Moss who answered. “She has been accused of cursing the queen’s child. She is in the Tower.”

“Cursing the queen’s child? Sorcery? I do not understand. Where has this evil rumor come from? Tell me, Moss.” In no sense was her tone threatening and yet when Anne turned her eyes toward Doctor Moss, he felt fear. The flat confidence with which she spoke now hinted at a power he thought she could not possibly possess. It was a warning: be careful how you deal with me.