Now all had changed, changed again. Because of the letter. His letter; the parchment placed in her hands today by Mathew Cuttifer’s messenger. Now all had changed, changed again. Because of the letter. His letter; the parchment placed in her hands today by Mathew Cuttifer’s messenger.
How the world had tipped and spun as she’d fingered the wax seal with its familiar device. But she had not opened it. Perhaps she would not ever open it.
Anne stood still, made herself as dense and strong as a stone pillar; as unassailable. She composed herself, half grateful that the contest had arrived. The contest between the past and the future.
She was in her favorite place in all the world—the castellated walk of her house from which she could see the valley below and, if she looked hard enough on a clear day, the sea in the deep and changing distance. Soon it would be suppertime and her son must be fed. Anne walked toward the door that opened onto the stairs leading down to the other floors of the Hall. But then the wind stirred and lifted her unbound hair until it streamed out around her head, around her shoulders. And she heard the voice.
Anne. Anne.
The Sword Mother stood between her and the door. In the evening light her mole-dark cloak made her part of the shadows in this windy place. Anne’s eyes locked with those of the cloaked woman and the wind died away. Utterly.
And then the cloaked figure moved, one graceful step, and the way to the stairs was clear.
There was only a moment and a low whistle, such as a bird might make, and then the shadows swallowed the woman whole and she was gone as if she had never been.
Anne blinked as if sun-blinded. But there was no sun. Night had eaten up the day.
Anne’s bed was in a room on the third level of the Hall. It was not quite a solar, it was too large for that and had doors opening from three of its four walls. Yet it made a tolerable bed chamber with a high view of the countryside. The two women sat huddled behind the red curtains, talking quietly as the rest of the household slept. Lying on the counterpane was the king’s letter.
Edward, by the grace of God, king of England, France, Wales, and Ireland… commands that the Lady Anne de Bohun attend the king’s court at Westminster…
Anne stared at the parchment. The words had almost lost sense, she’d read them so many times. Deborah picked up the letter and scanned the bold black words.
…with all speed. It is the king’s express pleasure that the said Lady Anne de Bohun join with His Majesty’s family in a mass of thanksgiving to be held…
“This is official. An official summons. You must send an answer.”
Anne was surly. “Let the messenger wait. Or go. I don’t care.”
Deborah tried again. “The Cuttifers will pay dearly for this if you do not go to court, Anne.”
“But this is not of my choosing.” Anne hunched the coverlet over her shoulders, an adult substitute for pulling it over her head. Deborah smiled tenderly and reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair. Sometimes she could still see the willful child beneath the woman’s skin.
“Of course. Yet they have been kind to you.”
Anne covered her eyes with her fingers. The adult was in full flight. “What can I do, Deborah? How can I choose?”
Anger is the most useless of all emotions, daughter.
How many voices spoke? One? Two?
But how can I go to him? It was an instinctive response as Anne’s hand sought Deborah’s, the words unspoken.
All was still within the tented bed as mother and daughter breathed together, deeper, slower, deeper once more.
There is only one choice and anger must be put aside. You have an obligation and a duty.
Herrard Great Hall was soundly asleep except for these two women. And the third who had joined them. The curtains of the great bed shivered. The voice was a breath, a soft wind that passed through the room like a swallow.
One choice. You will choose, and then you will know.
Outside, something barked: dog or fox? The sound was answered by a distant howling. It was the mid-dark of the night, a time when even the restless dreamed most deeply.
Are we dreaming, Mother?
There was nothing further, no answer to this question. Why, then, did Anne see a door open and light stream through and hear the sound… the sound of what? A waterfall? Water falling from a great height?
“Anne, can you hear me? Anne, wake.”
Deborah was shaking Anne by the shoulder. And that intensified the dream from the past, which had returned with full force. The dream of the wolf, tearing, ripping at her shoulder as she lay in the snow. There was a scream and an eagle dropped from the sky, driving the wolf away with its slashing talons, its beak. Cowed, running with blood, the wolf howled and fled as feathers brushed Anne’s face. The eagle settled beside her in the snow. Its great pennons were raised, casting a shadow across her body.
The eagle and the wolf… Why?
“Wolf? Ah, sweet girl, wake now. Come back to me.” Deborah’s throat was dry with fear. “There are no wolves in England. They’re gone. They’re all gone to Scotland. Anne? Anne!”
Anne de Bohun opened her eyes and saw the silver tracks on the lined cheeks. Gently she reached out and wiped the tears from her mother’s face. “Yes. You are right: there are no wolves. Eagles rule us now.”
Anne rode into Wincanton the Less to speak with Long Will and Meggan about the planned rebuilding of the cottages in the hamlet; their tumbledown state was her personal reproach and she meant to make that good.
Guilt was a powerful force. Whether she stayed, or went to London, that decision would trouble her hour by hour, day by day. Anne shook her head, as if to distract a troublesome wasp. Step by step, step by step. All she could do was all she could do.
“Take timber from the spinney by the mill,” she told the two villagers. “Work must be accomplished before autumn if you’re to have a better winter in this place.”
Dame Meggan smiled at their lady. For the first time in long, long years, the village women had the possibility of fat on their ribs over winter, and if they did, it was Anne de Bohun who would put it there. “Lady, the labor’s not such a problem—we’ll all work—but with so many men gone from the village to fight, a skilled builder to help us join and raise the house frames is what we sorely need.”
Anne nodded. “Very well. We must find you a builder.” Morganne, Anne’s mare, nudged her mistress, impatient with standing while the people talked. Automatically Anne reached up to smooth her nose. “Enough from you. You’ve had break-fast. Perhaps I should shake your legs out and you will not be so impertinent.” A long ride—that would help to clear her thoughts, help her find the impetus to action.
“Will, you and Dame Meggan must decide what is most urgent and send me a message at the Hall. I can spare Wat for a day or two. He shall go to Taunton and get what is required.”
Holding Morganne firmly beside the bit, Anne walked the horse to a crumbling wall. Finding a large rock, she stepped up and swung herself neatly onto the horse’s back, arranging her right knee around the pommel of the saddle so that her skirts hung down, decently covering her legs. No more riding astride for Anne de Bohun.
Gathering the reins in her gloved hands, Anne swallowed a shaky breath. To settle herself on the back of this good horse, to smell sweat from a well-worked animal, was to sweep back to that mad ride from s’Gravenhague to Brugge through a frozen world. It was just more than half a year since she’d huddled behind Edward Plantagenet in that frigid winter, riding across Europe as the world changed its balance around them. And now he wanted her to return to him. No, had ordered her to London.
“Mistress?” Meggan was smiling up at her.
It was good to be wanted, needed; to feel useful in the lives of these people. Should she leave this place? Could she?
“We heard. About London.”
The horse danced for a moment as Anne’s fingers tightened on the reins. Meggan nodded and, though she smiled brightly again, anxiety made her voice rough. “The summons from the king.”
“Who told you?”
Meggan looked down, embarrassed to meet Anne’s eyes. She shrugged. “People talk, lady.” Then she lifted her head. “Will you stay long at the court?”
Anne patted the restless mare and when she spoke, in a clear, carrying voice, she chose her words carefully. “You may tell them all, everyone here in Wincanton the Less, that the king is an old friend. An old friend of my family’s and, therefore, of yours. And if I go to London, if I go, it will be for the good of us all. And I will hurry back.”
Dame Meggan, too, spoke loudly, for the benefit of the villagers who were standing in their doorways, watching the exchange curiously. “We are all sure of it, lady. And no doubt the king will be pleased to consider your wishes when you ask to return?” Years of fear, years of hard winters and little food were behind Meggan’s truculence.
Anne understood. Her reply was patient and kind; she hoped her words were true. “Yes, Dame Meggan, he will consider my wishes. Good day to you all.”
Anne nodded confidently to the villagers as Meggan took a step back. The chatelaine of Herrard Great Hall settled herself more deeply into the saddle and straightened her back. Heeding the signal, the mare danced; she was eager to run, eager to stretch her stable-slackened muscles. At the edge of the hamlet, the broad, dusty road between the houses became a two-wheel track. It led straight: deep into a substantial wood of well-grown oaks and elms. Anne’s trees. Anne’s land. Yes, she would let Morganne run and run, and perhaps she would find the answer. She leaned forward, whispering, “Come, dear child. Fly for me.”
The horse needed no urging and instantly the handsome mare and the woman moved over the ground together like coupled birds. But Anne de Bohun knew the truth.
Run all you like, Truth said. You will have to face me at last. Pride contends with passion. The king has beckoned and he believes you will come to him gladly.
“Ha! Gladly?” Anne shouted the word and startled Morganne, who stumbled mid-stride. Her mistress reined the confused animal to a standstill. Horse and rider were both breathing fast.
In the end, did she, Anne de Bohun, have strength enough to defy Edward Plantagenet should she decide to stay at the Hall, to ignore the summons?
Truth laughed heartily. Defy? The proper question you must ask is, do you want to?