Lodewijk, sieur de Gruuthuse, governor of the province of Holland on behalf of Charles, duke of Burgundy, smiled at his “guest,” the former king of England, and shrugged apologetically. Lodewijk, sieur de Gruuthuse, governor of the province of Holland on behalf of Charles, duke of Burgundy, smiled at his “guest,” the former king of England, and shrugged apologetically.
“Sire, I am sure that you do appreciate the help these men gave you, but please understand my position and that of the duke, my master. He trusts me with governing this place for him. I keep civil order but for that, the people must have confidence in my rule. How would it look to them if I granted what you ask?”
Edward’s bargaining position was weak, he knew, yet while he had lost his throne, he was still a knight. Knighthood, even in these rapacious times, still warranted some obligations—when convenient. “Governor, these are good men made turbulent by violent times. The Frenchman who leads them is a brave man and bears an honorable name. His only foolishness is to have trusted Louis of France. One king has cheated him of his place in the world. This king would restore it.”
The sieur de Gruuthuse bowed. Edward, as gravely, bowed in return. They were old friends, these two. Lodewijk de Gruuthuse—commonly called Louis—had been Burgundian ambassador in England several times over the last twenty years and had known the earl of March, as Edward once had been, since he was a little boy. He’d liked him then, and continued to like him as a man, exiled king or not, though Edward’s current situation posed more than a few problems for him—and burdened him with a secret he could not share with his guest. For his part, Edward was greatly heartened that Louis was governor of Holland and therefore so close to Charles of Burgundy, his brother-in-law. Aristocrats in England had often sneered at the elegant Louis: he might look like a noble, they said, yet he’d made his extraordinary fortune from brewing beer. He’d bought his nobility, rather than earned it on the field of combat. Yet Edward, always interested in trade and merchants and their intriguing creativity, had felt Louis de Gruuthuse had a great deal to teach him about the world. Unlike so many English nobles, Louis did not despise learning for its own sake; he collected books and pictures, and his house in Brugge was more splendid, warmer, and more luxurious than most English palaces. He lived as opulently as a king and Edward, during his various visits to that great trading city, had learned much of civilized living from the man. He’d cultivated tastes that he’d taken back with him to London and that showed in the eventual adornment of his many houses and his own person. Now these two old friends found themselves sparring over the fate of a ragtag band of French and Flemish outlaws.
“My lord, this man and his followers would augment your own personal guard with distinction, I feel certain of that. They have provided me with their service, at some cost to themselves, and I wish to reward them for it by making their lives useful again.” Edward grimaced slightly as he spoke. The wound on his left forearm ached. It was a reminder of the minor mêlée he and his followers had been involved in during the early hours of this morning. The little Frenchman had shown great courage in that same fight.
Julian de Plassy and his men had agreed to provide an escort for the English to the Gevangenpoort, the outer gate of the Binnenhof, to increase their chances of reaching the sieur de Gruuthuse safely. But Louis’s men had happened on the English and their escort only two leagues outside the walls of the town. Mistaking them all for outlaws in the half-light, they had fallen on the party.
It was brief but hard fighting, in which Julian de Plassy, Lord Hastings, and Edward had found themselves hand to hand against Louis de Gruuthuse’s men. Then Edward had shouted, in English, “A York, a York, to me, to me,” upon which the baffled Flemish guard had faltered and the English had pressed their advantage into what threatened to become a rout, until the captain of the Flemings had called out in French, “Lord King? We are your friends.” Strange words to use, Edward thought now, when surrounded by groaning, bleeding men.
Now Edward sat in the private chambers of Louis de Gruuthuse, newly bathed, perfumed, and dressed in borrowed clothes according to his station—a sweeping black damasked gown belted with a gem-heavy girdle and worn over part-colored hose, one leg red, one leg blue, with soft black kid half boots embroidered with gold thread.
“I cannot free them,” Louis said. “There would be an outcry, Lord King. Many things I can grant, but this—I fear not.”
Edward settled himself more comfortably against the back of the carved chair he’d been given. Louis sat in its twin. The chairs, each with a Cloth of Estate, had been arranged so that Louis’s chair was on a dais slightly lower than that occupied by Edward. The king found that a delicate compliment, considering his current situation.
“Give them to me, therefore. All those whom I gather around me now will have cause to be grateful for the rewards they will receive… later.” He laughed but the laughter was not pleasant.
“Very well, it shall be so. When you decide to return to England, they shall accompany you and I will see that they wear your livery then. However, to placate my people, they must remain in our prison for this time.”
Edward nodded. It was a reasonable compromise. He would make sure the Frenchman and his band were well fed and well housed. He did not want good men made sick by prison fever. They would be no use to him then.
“Could Your Majesty allow me to understand how the situation in England developed?”
Edward grimaced. Ten days, was it? Ten days, and he had no throne? “Warwick and my—” He had been going to say “my brother,” but it still hurt too much. “Warwick and Clarence—you must know it’s been going back and forth between us for these last three years and more. Clarence… well, he’s proved to be more amenable to Warwick and his plans after the earl found he couldn’t control me. Warwick has married Clarence to his daughter now. Something I could never agree to, for obvious reasons.”
The marriages of the great were always rife with the heaving possibilities of dynastic struggle. Had not Earl Warwick himself been shamed when Edward, his then protégé, secretly married the English lady Elizabeth Gray, née Wydeville, a Lancastrian knight’s widow? Louis well recalled that the earl had been planning a grand French marriage for the young king at the time. Furious at being made a fool in the eyes of all Europe, Warwick had quickly turned his attentions toward a more grateful quarter. Rumor said that he’d promised Edward’s disgruntled younger brother, George, duke of Clarence, a tilt at his brother’s throne. And now the marriage between Isabel and Clarence had cemented that ambitious plan.
“They’ve gone too far this time, Louis. And it won’t get Clarence what he seeks.”
Louis de Gruuthuse agreed. “Rumor has it that Earl Warwick wants to restore the former royal family to the English throne. Is this so?”
Edward swirled the wine of Burgundy in his Venetian glass goblet; it was closer to black than red in this light.
“Yes. Warwick’s reinstated Henry, and Margaret’s son is back in the line of succession. Edward. Another one.” He grimaced and, for a moment, almost mentioned Anne de Bohun, Henry’s other child. But then he stopped himself. Very few knew of Anne’s royal descent. Or of his feelings for the girl. He would not discuss her now. He looked at his host with the glimmer of a smile.
“Can you imagine it, Louis? Warwick joining forces with the woman whose husband he and I tried to kill at Mortimer’s Cross and Towton? As for brother George…” He laughed, a grating sound. “What chance the throne for him, now that the old queen has Warwick to back her? And, as we said, there’s her son, Edward, the grace-given boy.”
Both men chuckled. It was ancient scandal that marital relations between the previous, now restored, Lancastrian king, Henry VI, and his French queen, Margaret, had been anything but warm. So chilly had they become, in fact, that when the queen’s son was first placed in the king’s arms he’d piously said the child must have been fathered by the Holy Ghost, for he could not see how the boy was of his own get. Yet this same boy—son of his father or not—was now the prince of Wales once more, and Warwick, in swearing fealty to the old queen, must, of necessity, have sidelined Clarence’s own ambitions to sit on the throne of England himself.
“Your master, Charles of Burgundy. Will he help me, Louis?”
Louis de Gruuthuse had been a diplomat for many years and his response was elegant. “Your Grace, I feel sure that my master is most agonized at your plight, bound together by family as you are. I am instructed to aid you in any way that I can, and to house you fittingly while you consider your future.” Elegant, but not direct.
Edward frowned. He was tired and less in command of his expression than usual, or he would not have been so unsubtle. “Well, let us see what this aid of yours consists of. However, it is imperative that I speak with Charles face-to-face. We must move quickly if we are to beat the French as they conspire with Warwick to hold England. King Louis wishes to isolate me, but there is much at stake for your master too. I need to retake my kingdom so that England can, once more, be the duke’s strong ally against the French. He must see that.”
The sieur de Gruuthuse rose and bowed. “I am certain that my master sees all, Your Grace. But these are matters we should speak of when you are properly rested. Come, we have prepared a feast of welcome and entertainment to amuse you and your party. A little music and more good wine will help the world seem brighter.”
A credible facsimile of delight brightened Edward’s face. “A feast? Charming thought! Dancing, music, and pretty women—these three will make us all feel better. I declare that I could eat the wretched gelding I’ve ridden these last days if you would only serve him up! Come, my friend, lead the way.”
Louis clapped his hands sharply. The two bronze-bound doors, with their allegorical scenes of the labors of Hercules, were instantly thrown back and the palace majordomo, flanked by at least fifty attendant gentlemen, including the English party of lords, sank down on one knee, heads bowed, to honor the governor and his exalted guest. Louis and Edward, matching their pace as if taking part in a courtly dance, entered the mighty space of the Ridderzaal, the Knights’ Hall. This handsome cavernous chamber had been built by the unlamented Count Floris V, to adorn the castle that began as a hunting lodge two centuries earlier. It was a jewellike setting for courtly festivities, designed to show off the wealth and power of its now-supplanted owners. Perhaps there was a message in this, but that night, as all watched the English king laugh, compliment the dancers and the mummers, and distribute largesse when he left the feast for his bed (with coin provided discreetly by the governor) no one doubted for a moment that the situation in England was anything but temporary. Power, in the person of Edward Plantagenet, would be restored to its rightful place.
But Edward, when he closed his aching eyes in his bed chamber, finally let all pretense of mastery drop away. “Did my messenger find you, Anne? Will Charles help me? What must I do?”
William Hastings heard his master’s mumbled words through the open door between his room and the king’s. It was a question William also wanted answered.
It was unlikely Charles would help Edward’s cause without great inducement, because Europe and Burgundy were most delicately poised. Duke Charles had achieved a cessation in hostilities with the French—a fragile peace, but one that was holding for the moment. To actively assist his Plantagenet brother-in-law would most likely cause Warwick and Louis of France to move together against Burgundian territory in the prosperous Low Countries—perhaps even the very citadel in which they slept tonight. The balance of power in Europe, relatively stable for a few short years, was beginning to teeter, and disaster loomed.
Yes, Hastings, too, hoped the king’s messenger had reached Anne de Bohun in Brugge. She was close to the court, close to the duke. Charles might listen to Anne as a go-between, where he would be suspicious of his own wife’s opinions and intentions, as she was Edward’s sister. Lord, let it be so, let the man have found her. Let her have agreed to help the king’s cause with Duke Charles.
Surely Anne de Bohun would see that was her duty, whatever history had been between them? Surely she would help Edward Plantagenet?