Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, contemplated the corpse of her least favorite prelate in all the world. Anne and she had propped Bishop Odo’s body upright in the cathedra. It hadn’t been easy; in life he’d been a corpulent man. Butter, cream, eggs, and much good goose fat had created this impressive bulk over many, many years. In death, the many chins, the bald head, gave him the look of a monstrous baby. The two women looked at the cooling corpse with horror. Their situation was desperate. Margaret had earlier sent her trusted maid to lure away the boy who was guarding Anne’s cell, but he might return at any moment. How could they explain what had happened? For Margaret, the clarity of an hour ago, the certainty that only she could save Anne, had evaporated and some of the bishop’s words returned with dreadful force. Obedience. Duty. Sorcery. Could she really look her husband in the eye and lie about the events of tonight?
Anne sensed the duchess’s growing fear. “Margaret, listen to me. We can do this.” With one arm around her friend’s waist, holding her steady, holding her up, Anne forced Margaret to look away from the corpse. “How many people know that Bishop Odo is in the Prinsenhof tonight?”
Shock had filled Margaret’s mind with mist. “Um. Enough. The gate-wards would have let him into the palace. Charles’s servants would know as well, of course—and the bishop’s monks.” The duchess was feeling strange, very strange. She giggled. “But why would they worry? Why should we worry either? Not going anywhere at the moment is he, our dear, dead bishop?”
Anne took her friend’s hands and gripped them tight. “We must make people think that Odo has left the palace. I will stay here. In this room. The guards must know I’m still here. And you have to go before you’re seen.”
But the duchess did not move; the bishop’s body was some dreadful anchor, holding her to the spot. Round and round the words went, round and round. What do we do? Sweet Mary, tell me what to do! He’s dead. God in Heaven, we killed him. What do we do now—
The smart crack as Anne’s palm connected with Margaret’s cheek was very loud. Anne seized the duchess of Burgundy by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Margaret, I’m sorry. I had to do it. Please, please forgive me.”
Margaret swallowed. After a moment she nodded shakily.
Anne grasped one of Margaret’s hands again and, linking their fingers together in a web, took a deep breath. “We need help. You must go and get it. Whom do you trust?”
Margaret closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate. “Aseef. I will get Aseef.”
Anne nodded, her eyes darting around the room. “Yes, of course! But first, Duchess, we must turn this chair.”
Margaret saw what Anne meant and hurried to help her friend push the heavy cathedra with its ghastly contents around until its back was presented to the door. If the guard returned and looked in through the spyhole, he’d see the chair, and its contents, from the back and think that the interrogation was continuing. Distantly, from the Markt Square, the great bell above the cloth hall tolled, once, twice. “You must go now, Duchess.”
Margaret kissed her friend and blotted the tears from her eyes. She hauled open the heavy cell door and fled, leaving Anne alone with the corpse of her accuser.
The girl knelt reluctantly at the feet of the dead man, her eyes on the arras that now hung straight and undisturbed on the stone wall. “Mother, help me now. Lift up the Sword of Justice and bring down the enemies of truth…”
Anyone passing would have heard the conventionally pious words and crossed themselves, perhaps even in sympathy. Poor Lady Anne, they might have thought, she needs all the help she can gather, mortal and Divine. Hard to believe that such a pretty girl really was a witch…
“If you won’t say it, I must, Your Grace. This is futile. We must think about tomorrow.” Hastings turned in his stirrups to face the king’s brother. Three gates later and the guards were no longer just abusive; very close calls with the watch at each gate had left one of the horses wounded and Richard with a graze on one hand. The duke nodded grimly. He spurred his horse so that it was racing beside the king’s along the turfed bank of the Zwijn on the opposite bank from Brugge. “Edward, stop. Brother! Hear me!”
Edward’s horse was nearly blown and the king knew it, but he would not acknowledge that fact. Richard forced the issue: he was half a length ahead of the king when he slewed his animal around in front of Edward’s, blocking his path.
“Christ’s eyes! Richard!”
Only the king’s strong wrists saved them both from disaster. He reined so savagely that blood ran from his horse’s bit and it screamed in protest. “I hope you’re proud of that! You could have killed us both.” Edward jumped down to look at the horse’s damaged mouth.
“No, I’m not proud. But neither should you be. We have to stop this, Edward. You have other things to do now. Anne will have to wait.”
Edward turned on his brother, eyes wild. “Torture. Have you thought of that? She could die.”
William rode up, flecked white with foam from his exhausted horse. “The duke is Lady Anne’s friend, my liege. As is the duchess, your sister. No one will harm Lady de Bohun tonight…” He resisted the temptation to cross himself, because nothing was certain with such accusations. “And we meet the duke tomorrow. We must think about tomorrow.”
William saw something die in Edward’s eyes. The king gently wiped blood from his horse’s muzzle with the trailing edge of his cloak, soothing the frightened animal. “Tomorrow. Yes.” After a moment, he pulled himself back up into the saddle. “What advice do you have, William?”
Hastings smothered relief and spoke carefully. “Our greatest strength in this case is your sister, the duchess, sire. Tomorrow, during our audience with the duke, we should point out that Lady Anne is under the protection of England, since it is the country of her birth. And that she should be released to the duchess until such time as—”
Edward turned in his saddle to peer at his chamberlain. “Until such time as I am restored and the Lady Anne can return to our court in London.” He gathered up his reins and patted the neck of his nervous horse. He was exhausted. And angry. Principally with himself.
Richard spoke with hearty encouragement. “Exactly so, brother. A very good plan. Should we now return to the farm? There’s little of the night left to us.”
Edward cast one long last glance toward the sleeping city of Brugge. Most was in darkness, yet, as he turned his gaze toward the Prinsehof, there was a single light burning still. Was that where she was? Was that where Anne was waiting, in despair, to be rescued?
He turned his mount’s head for home and kicked the horse into a gentle trot, mindful of its damaged mouth. His companions fell in behind him on the narrow track beside the rain-swollen river. The decision had been taken.