News of the fiasco at the Christ-mass feast had reached the farm late in the day from a bargeman who’d tied up at Anne’s river gate to buy butter. And as the English ate their supper, fact and rumor became more and more lurid in the retelling. News of the fiasco at the Christ-mass feast had reached the farm late in the day from a bargeman who’d tied up at Anne’s river gate to buy butter. And as the English ate their supper, fact and rumor became more and more lurid in the retelling.
Earl Rivers was drunk. “I’m telling you the truth. The bargeman said the monk called her a whore. And a witch. God save us, William—we eat in the house of a sorceress! He named the king as an adulterer too. No surprises there, eh?”
He guffawed, punching Richard’s shoulder and, in his glee, choked and dribbled ale freely from his nose. Hastings frowned at the extravagant fool, even now banging his beaker on Anne’s board as he called for more to drink. The earl might be the brother of Elizabeth Wydeville, the queen, but he was also a rowdy idiot at times.
“Rivers, you’re repeating gossip. This monk—he sounds touched.”
Hastings put one finger to his temple and tapped it. “Too much incense, if you ask me.”
That got a big laugh.
Edward, who was talking with his archers, encouraging them to eat well for the days ahead, looked around. “What? What’s so funny?”
He sauntered over to his friends and inserted himself between them on the bench. “Move up, Richard. I swear, you’re getting fat with all this lying around!”
Richard grinned. “Well, brother, if I am, the remedy is close, with all the fighting that’s to come. Long life in paradise to Stephen, saint and martyr. May he guide us tomorrow, on his day, with good counsel.”
They all crossed themselves and laughed with great good humor, joining Lord Rivers in the call for “More ale, more ale!” Lisotte and Vania, harried with the serving of so many extra mouths and stomachs, hurried back to the house to drain the last of the Christ-mass brew. Good-humored catcalls followed them from the men in the barn. “What sort of inn is this place? Too slow! Too slow!” Edward frowned and William Hastings took the hint, rising to his feet and calling out, “Hush now! You are discourteous, my friends, even humorously. Lady Anne’s women work very hard.” “So does Lady Anne. On her back, at least!” Earl Rivers was convinced it was the best joke in the world and, unsuspecting, the archers guffawed along with everyone else. Then each man in the barn saw the look on the king’s face. It was murderous. There was instant silence.
“What did you say?”
Edward rose and the unfortunate earl had a sudden urgent desire to piss himself. He wriggled off his bench and knelt before the king, head bent as if for execution. “Nothing, liege. Nothing at all.”
Eagle-like, the king glared down on his brother-in-law; the earl could almost hear the beating of great wings. Quavering, Rivers uttered the fatal words: “Sire, I was just repeating what the monk said.” Edward, closeted for the day with William and Richard, planning for tomorrow’s meeting with the duke, had heard nothing about the Christ-mass feast. “Monk? What monk?” The silence settled thick as snow. Earl Rivers swallowed to control his shaking jaw. “The Dominican. At the duke’s feast. He accused Lady Anne of witchcraft and… and a number of other things.” Earl Rivers gulped and breath fled; he could say nothing more. That saved him. Edward’s glance swept the faces of the men in the hall. He could see that each one of his companions knew what he did not.
He swung back to the earl. “Get up,” he ordered.
Earl Rivers squared his shoulders as he stood, face scarlet from embarrassment. But the king turned away from his queen’s brother. “William, Richard, come with me.”
A blast of freezing air rushed through the barn as Edward strode outside. Hastings and Gloucester scrambled from their bench in pursuit. They found Edward saddling a horse at speed; he was white with rage and fear. Brutally wrenching the saddle girth tight—a surprise to his chosen mount, which had blamelessly been eating its evening mash—Edward rounded on his friends.
“Who is this monk?”
William shrugged uneasily and cleared his throat, glancing at Richard for support. Bravely, the duke spoke first.
“Brother, he’s a madman. We’ve had reports—”
“Reports? Reports! Why was I not told of these reports?”
William added his voice. “You have far too much else to concern you, sire. This monk is a momentary wonder. His claims were entirely ridiculous. It will come to nothing.”
“I am most relieved, William. And grateful. You must have great confidence in this intelligence to limit my need for knowing it.” His glance at his old friend was cutting. “What did this madman say?” The king was in the saddle now, wrapped in his riding cloak, sword at his belt. “Well? I must know whom and what I fight. What did he say, brother?”
Richard hurried to throw a saddle across another horse, fumbling with the girth. “He called Anne a witch. And accused her of adultery. With—” Even he balked at the final words, turning into the horse’s belly as he hauled on the buckles of the girth. Edward’s brows went up at his brother’s embarrassment. “With me, perhaps?” Richard’s busy silence gave the answer. The king wheeled his horse on a shortened rein. “And witchcraft too? I hope this monk is well shrived!”
And he was gone, spurring in the direction of Brugge.
“Edward, wait!” Richard rode away from Anne’s farm a moment later in pursuit of the king, his cloak flying out behind like great, dark wings. Hastings was later by a minute, lashing his horse to catch the brothers on the path that led to Brugge. Witch or not, Anne de Bohun had some explaining to do, but William doubted very much that Edward would listen to sense where Anne was concerned. This morning the king had chosen duty before his passion for this girl. Now that decision was undone with light words and gossip. God curse Rivers! How had Anne come this far? A servant at court, nothing more, just a maid to the queen. Now Anne de Bohun was danger incarnate—danger for Edward, danger for England. He must diffuse that danger, if he could. It was his duty. “Wait up, my lords, wait up!”
Lisotte, Deborah, and Vania dodged the men’s horses—one, two, three—as they flew past, trying not to spill the ale in their leather buckets. They stared fearfully after the riders as they disappeared, shouting, into the cold dark.
The Devil himself rode out across the night world just as these men did, gathering the souls of sinners. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The other women crossed themselves, but Deborah did not. As Vania and Lisotte knocked on the doors of the barn, shouting for them to be opened, Deborah gazed into the black distance and prayed. But she prayed to another, older god for help. The Sword Mother.
In these uncertain times, the watch on the Kruispoort, one of the great gates of the walled city of Brugge, performed its duty faithfully. Every night, the gate was closed at sunset and locked and bolted. All the gates of Brugge were closed and locked and bolted, and none was opened for any living thing—no man, no woman, no child—until the morning.
“There’s an English Angel in it for each man if you will open the gate! Come, let us in, our business is most urgent. My master, the king…” Hastings shouted the words into the wind, but the gusting night air snatched them away.
“What? A king? Hah! If he’s really a king, tell him to come back in daylight so we can see him properly. Now leave! Your noise disturbs the rest of the people here.”
Hastings turned to Edward, utterly frustrated. “Unless there’s another way into the city, sire…?”
Edward rode forward, tugging at the hood of his cloak and pulling it back so the men on the gate could see his face. “I am Edward Plantagenet, king of England.”
The torches of the watch fought the same wind that snatched away his words; it was impossible to see who was yelling at them from the shadows of the city wall.
Edward bellowed louder. “I have business with your duke, my brother-in-law. Open this gate!”
“You could be French Louis himself for all we care.” A volley of arrows came from the ramparts of the gate—aimed to frighten, not kill. One sliced a trough in William Hastings’s hair and another startled his horse, whizzing past its ear.
“Leave now. Or believe that worse will follow.”
Edward wheeled his horse abruptly and kicked it to a canter, then a gallop, shouting as he rode, “How many gates are there, Richard?”
Booting his horse to keep up, Richard yelled back, “Not sure. Eight? Nine?”
“One of them will open for us.”
William Hastings glanced at Richard of Gloucester, shaking his head. The duke shrugged helplessly. This is madness! his look said. William nodded, grim-faced. No one woman on Earth was worth this. Somehow, he would make the king understand that. But not tonight; plainly, not tonight.