“She’s gone. Some days since, my lord.” “She’s gone. Some days since, my lord.”
William Hastings, the chamberlain of England, had the craziest urge to laugh as he gazed on Deborah’s bent head. He stretched out a hand and raised her from her curtsy.
“Do not be frightened, mistress. Just tell me where the Lady Anne has gone.”
Deborah composed herself. She had some liking for William Hastings but the sudden wash of fear was a warning she should heed. “My lady’s business is her own, sir.” The king’s chamberlain was one of the greatest magnates in England, and he was in Anne’s hall, supported by a considerable force of armed men all waiting outside in the inner ward. It was bravely said. William’s lips twitched. He liked courage.
“Nonetheless, I am on the king’s business and here by his command, Mistress Deborah. He expects obedience from his subjects. I ask you again: where is your lady?”
“She has gone to London.”
William slewed around toward the sound of a man’s voice. The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed. “I know you.”
Leif Molnar strolled forward until he stood beside Deborah. He was almost twice the old woman’s height but he leaned down and picked up one of her small hands, and patted it to comfort her, before he replied. “Yes. You know me. I have you to thank for months without light last winter in the Binnenhof. I had not thought to give so many dark days to the king.”
Hastings glanced at the giant Norseman, eyebrows raised. He smiled, not unkindly, and said mildly, “There are worse prisons than the dungeons of the Binnenhof, my friend. Why are you here at this house?”
Leif could have taken the words as provocation. He chose not to. “Guarding my lady’s interests. From all who would trouble her.”
“Ah. That is a good answer and, therefore, we can be friends. For I, too, am here to help guard your lady. Her interests are the king’s. And the king’s are mine.”
Since Leif was not a fool he heard the double tone, the ambiguity around the word “lady.” “Lord Chamberlain, my lady will be grateful for your kind interest once she hears of it. Yet I fear, since you arrive too late to tell her of it yourself, she may never completely understand the support and comfort you wish to offer. However, I am certain she would wish me to offer thanks in her stead, as her faithful servant.” He bowed gracefully, from the waist.
Deborah was astonished. Normally, Leif spoke as little as possible. Now his speech and bearing were perfectly polished.
The chamberlain found himself bowing in reply. That confused him. He’d presumed that this man who’d once claimed to be Anne’s husband was a common seaman. “And may I know the name of Lady de Bohun’s most distinguished servant?”
“My name is Leif Molnar. I am the captain of Sir Mathew Cuttifer’s cog, the Lady Margaret. My master has set me the task to guard his ward, Lady de Bohun. It is my duty, my honor, and my pleasure to fulfill that task.”
“And yet she went to London without you?”
There was the slightest, the very slightest, sneer to the chamberlain’s words. Deborah’s eyes flicked to the Norseman. He could see her concern and smiled, gently holding out a chair so she could sit. Should she? The chamberlain had not indicated his permission.
“Mistress, will you sit? You seem tired to me.” Politics and power crackled in the air as Leif addressed Deborah directly.
William Hastings slapped one riding glove against the other as the woman sat in a simple chair. “You did not answer me, Master Molnar.”
The Dane smiled placidly. “My lady is always well guarded now, lord. I see to that.”
Hastings ground his teeth silently. He was tired and covered in dust and now he faced the lengthy ride back to London, unsatisfied. Three more days. God only knew what would have transpired by the time he returned to court.
“Very well. However, since the welfare of your mistress”—again, it was an ambiguous word—“is close to the heart of our king, I must ask you to tell me where she lodges.”
Just at that moment, a child’s happy voice was heard. “Deborah, Deborah, where are you?”
The old woman broke the tension between the two men by calling out, “In here, child. In the hall.”
A small blur of energy hurtled into the room and resolved itself into Edward as he jumped onto Deborah’s lap. “Look, look! A green frog. Really green!”
“So it is. But see, Edward, we have visitors. Here is Lord Hastings. You must greet him on behalf of your aunt, child.”
Edward turned to see Hastings gazing at him with great interest. “Hello. I remember you. You stayed at our old house. You are welcome to our new one. Do you like frogs, sir?”
It was said with perfect poise and William Hastings, the father of sons himself, was enchanted. “I am pleased to be remembered. May I see your frog, small master?”
Leif Molnar moved closer to the woman and the child as the chamberlain sauntered toward them. Their eyes met. And locked.
“Ah yes. A very fine, and no doubt rare, large green frog. You are most fortunate, Edward.”
The child nodded vigorously. “He’d be very happy living with us here, you know. Don’t you agree, sir?”
All guileless charm, the chamberlain noted. Just like his father.
“No doubt Mistress Deborah will have her opinions on this; however, it’s my experience that frogs like ponds and long grass more than living in houses.”
Edward shook his head. “Oh no. Not all frogs. This one’s an indoors frog. He likes it here. See?” He slipped off Deborah’s knee and carefully put the animal down on the rushes. It sat there, gulping rapidly but unmoving.
“We like freedom, Edward. That is most precious to us all. Frogs and people alike.”
Leif Molnar was looking at William Hastings as he spoke. Edward was on his tummy on the floor, earnestly inspecting the frog at close quarters. The chamberlain stooped down and held out his hand. After a moment, the frog hopped onto his palm. A strange thing to see. Edward sat up and held out his hand. “No! He’s mine!”
“It is a big and dangerous world, Edward. Some handle freedom better than others. This frog, for instance…”
Edward was on tiptoe, holding up his hands. “Give him to me. Give him to me!”
Deborah was shocked. “Edward!”
The little boy took no notice. “Please, sir. I found him. He’s mine!” His bottom lip was trembling and William Hastings smiled compassionately at the child.
“You may have him back but”—Edward raised a tear-stained face—“there is a price you must pay for him. Where is your aunt?”
The little boy smiled happily. “Oh, that’s easy. She’s at Sir Mathew’s house. Can I have my frog back now?”
It was late in the day as Edward Plantagenet held the small parchment scroll in his hands. He touched the seal with gentle fingers. It was one he had granted personally—three Angevin leopards surmounting two drops of blood. Anne’s seal.
“Your Majesty, may I pour you another—”
“Go!” The king’s glance at the pot-boy was unthinkingly severe. So much so, the child almost dropped the ale flask as he scrambled to back away.
A moment before, the king had been serene. He’d been strolling back from the great mews of the palace after inspecting his hunting birds with a party of friends. It was a late and balmy afternoon; even the midges had cleared in the gentle breeze as the sun declined to the west. There’d been happy laughter, even jokes, from the court party as the king stopped to take the horn of ale.
But then the messenger had arrived with the little scroll. Now the courtiers stood silently, frozen by indecision. Should they follow the boy? The king looked up for a moment as he tore the scroll open. “Yes! All of you. Leave.” He turned his back as he waved them away.
There was quiet debate among the men as they trailed off in twos and threes. Was the king angry, or sad? Or…?
“The French, do you think? Louis back in the game with some deep play?” Wise heads nodded.
“He looked shocked. Bad news?”
There was a sudden whoop of laughter behind them and one or two dared to look back. The king’s face was joyous and he threw his velvet hat high into the air as he hurried away, not caring where it fell. Courtiers turned to one another astonished, and one bent down to pick up the king’s headgear from where it had fallen into a pile of horse droppings.
“Should we go…?”
“…with him? No. He hasn’t asked us.”
The man holding the king’s hat shook it hard to dislodge the stable’s donation to high fashion. The padded velvet would need to be dried and carefully brushed. Perhaps the brown stain left on its rolled rim would be close enough to the natural red not to be noticed when dry. He held it to the light.
His friend shook his head. “Too late.”
For the hat? Or to catch the king?
“Where do you think he’s going in such a hurry?”
His friend shrugged. “Somewhere he doesn’t want us.”