It was the feast day of John, the blessed and holy Baptist, and June was approaching the end of its proud season. This perfect summer had begun in late May, as if to bless the return of the king, and it had continued with blue skies and sharp stars, with soft winds and the greatest splendor of foliage in the lanes and byways that any could ever remember in the kingdom of England.
But still she did not come to him.
“And? What do you hear?”
“Lord King, the Lady Anne declined the escort you sent to her recently, and they have returned to the palace. The message, given verbally, was that her people had need of her presence and she must tend to their needs first.”
The king paced the privy chamber, blood itching beneath hot, tight skin. “First? What does this mean? Perhaps she means to come later in the year?”
William suppressed a shrug. “I do not know, sire. Those whom you sent said the lady locked them out of her Hall and declined to tell them more. Short of besieging the place, they had no choice but to return.”
Edward Plantagenet continued his pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Hastings was reminded of the lions at the Tower before feeding time. “Is the bower fit to receive the Lady Anne when she does come to court?”
The chamberlain nodded. The bower was prepared. He had created a wonder for the eyes of one woman and one man alone. An ancient tower within a wild garden had been found and, in less than two weeks, all had been refurbished within and without so that now it stood, empty and perfect, to receive this woman who so obsessed the king, to the great danger of the kingdom.
“Why, William? Why does she not come to me when I ask her?”
The words were out of William’s mouth before he could stop them. “Perhaps she is frightened, liege?”
“But I am her protector. How could she, or the boy, come to harm if I make it clear Anne de Bohun is my chosen favorite?”
Denial lay behind the confident words and they both knew it. Hastings said nothing and Edward whirled around to face his oldest, closest friend. There was dread behind the fury.
“Elizabeth? Perhaps she makes Anne fearful? I understand my duty and so does the queen; she will always be honored as my wife and I think we are closer, as we should be, since the birth of our son. But Anne… I need her here!”
William Hastings was an unusually well-educated man for a soldier, and as the king roared, filling the small stone room with his rage, an image troubled him. An infant, held by the heel of one foot, plunged into a cauldron of shining water and emerging red-faced, screaming. But invincible. Godlike. Except for the one place on his body that had not been dipped into the water of the Gods… Achilles. The great hero of Troy who died from a wound to the unprotected heel.
Anne de Bohun was Edward Plantagenet’s fatal flaw. Now, when the king should be focused completely on rebuilding his dynasty and convincing the populace of its stability—and his right, therefore, to the throne—the specter of this girl rose up once more; rose, as it had far too many times in the past, to distract the king from his duty. William understood sexual infatuation, which was tolerable since its power always waned with time. But this was different and he feared, as the Greeks had, the curse of love.
“No! I know that look, William. You think she is bad for me. You do not understand. You cannot.” Fury fled the king’s face to be replaced by such sadness, William was nonplussed.
“Your Majesty, she is just a girl. There are many girls.”
“In London? In my kingdom? Yes. And each one eager to boast of bedding the king. Each one hungry for the advantage that would bring. But don’t you see? Anne doesn’t want any of that. She wants me. Only me. I am her knight and I am the father of her son. And he is my eldest son.” Moodily, the king gazed off into the distance.
William suppressed his irritation with a determined effort. In the end, when sentiment was set aside, Anne’s son, enchanting as he was, was only a bastard and there was now a legitimate prince. Not for the first time did Hastings regret the court’s fondness for reading books of chivalry. Otherwise rational men, such as the king, risked becoming distracted by a fatally emotional view of existence—a misty, changeable, female vision of life—as a result of these ridiculous stories of knights and their unattainable ladies. Simple things—relationships between men and women, for instance—became muddied and confused where before there had been clear rules of engagement between the sexes. Still, he was wary of speaking that particular truth. Edward was exhausted from having fought his way down the kingdom in the last three months. Speaking bluntly now would serve none of them well. Plantagenets were known to be highly strung, highly charged, and Edward was no different. It was the obverse face of the coin of greatness. On one side there was the image that was public, that of a pitiless man of war, the leader of his people, sword in his right hand, scales of justice in his left; but on the other side there was the private man, the father, the lover and, yes, the dreamer of courtly dreams. This man was in love with Anne de Bohun. And she was his unprotected, unblessed heel.
Like the girl as he did, admire her courage as he’d always done, William Hastings knew that Anne de Bohun had been dangerous to Edward’s stability for the last six years, and never more so than now. Perhaps, in the end, she really was a witch, a malign force let loose in the king’s life?
William resisted the urge to cross himself. What was he thinking? Witches were creatures of fantasy. Peasant superstition. Action was required, like fresh wind through a stuffy hall. “Your Majesty, what would you like me to do?”
Edward turned and stared at William, his face tormented. “Go to her yourself. Now. Bring her to London. Just… do what is required. And I want you to tell Her Majesty the queen of my wishes in this matter. Later, you may give me her response to this command.”
William Hastings bowed low so that the king would not see what he felt. Never, in all the time they’d been together, in all the battles they’d fought back to back, had he smelled the rank breath of potential ruin so clearly, so potently. He dreaded talking to the queen.
“And William?”
The chamberlain paused in backing from the little room. “Your Majesty?”
“Do not frighten Lady Anne. Make her understand…”
“Understand what, liege?”
“Why she is necessary to me. And that I love her.”
The door closed softly behind the chamberlain of England and the door-ward dropped the latch into place as if it were bedded in velvet. He’d heard the last part of the exchange. They were all in for it now, when the queen found out about the king’s doxy.