The lamps were lit in the tower as the warm day declined into dusk. In the west, the last flaring glory splayed across the sky in colors a painter could never match: ember red, flowing gold, grape black. And in the depths of the garden, Anne, in her glimmering white dress, knelt beside the waterfall, praying.
What did she pray for?
Her eyes opened. “Guide me, Mother. Help me. This is too hard. Deborah was right.”
“I will help you, my darling. Here I am.”
And he was, thinking to surprise her, but he’d heard the sadness in her voice. It chilled him. Anne turned toward Edward. The wind was rising and branches sighed above his head.
“It gives me pleasure to look at you, Anne. It’s almost enough.” Almost.
She reached out her hands to this man she loved so much: hold me. The king gathered Anne de Bohun. “What’s wrong, my darling? Tell me.” The eternal question that a man asked a woman. And there were many answers, but none that could be given words.
“Don’t be frightened. I have you safe.” Edward tightened his arms around Anne and she smiled, leaning against his chest as he rocked her, gently, to and fro, to and fro. The king looked down at the head resting at the base of his throat. “What do you fear, Anne?”
“It’s not what I fear, it’s what I now know.”
Edward frowned and led her by the hand to one of the benches. “You speak to me in riddles tonight, my sweet girl. What causes you so much pain?”
For a moment, Anne had a sense that they were being watched. She glanced up as the last light in the west glimmered on the mouth, the nose, the deep-set eyes of the god of waterfall. Was his presence benevolent or…
“People oppose us, Edward. Powerful people. They want me out of your life.” Anne felt the muscles in her lover’s arms and shoulders shift and stiffen.
“My darling, politics always swirls around the throne. But I am the king. I’ve earned my throne back and the country is mine. I know of no one who can challenge me now, not even Louis.” He was suddenly passionate. “I need you. I need the love and comfort you bring me. The joy we give each other is precious. And I want you here, at court. I want our son to grow up with his sisters, and his new brother; they are his family also. The queen will grow accustomed in time. Other kings are granted happiness in their lives, why not me?” It was a cry direct from his soul.
Anne put her arms around Edward and kissed him, held his rigid body, soothed him until, at last, he kissed her gently in return. And for that moment, she believed it was all possible, must be possible; they would stand against the world, together. She would not think about William Hastings or Elizabeth Wydeville; would not think about the shame of being the king’s mistress. She would trust in what she and Edward had between them. And live from day to day, snatching what happiness she could. One thing remained.
Anne sat, and the king sat down beside her, kissing her lovingly. She picked up one of his hands and, looking into his eyes, asked the question that would change her life.
“I would like to meet my father. We heard little news at home, but some said he was in the Tower. I would like to ask his blessing.”
Edward dropped his eyes from hers. The wistful catch in her voice was the thrust of a knife.
“I know he’s been very sick, Edward, but I would like him to know I’m alive. I’ve been told he loved my mother very much, and when he heard she’d died—that I’d died, too—he was distraught.” Anne sighed. “His wife, the old queen, Margaret, was responsible for my mother’s death. Did you know that?”
Edward brushed tears from Anne’s eyes but he said nothing.
“I’ve lived all my life without my father. It’s hard when you have no family. My foster mother has loved me so much, and I am very grateful, but I should have liked a father to guide me. I long to see him. Please let me visit him, Edward.”
The king tried to speak, but then he looked at Anne and she saw what was in his eyes. A nightingale’s call broke the silence between them.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
He turned his face away. “Your father, Henry of Lancaster…” The words died. He began again. “The old king…”
She could barely whisper the question. “Did you kill him?”
Agony. It was agony to think of it, for so many reasons. “No. Not I, but…”
Anne stood with difficulty. Her joints had seized. “You had him murdered.” A flat statement; she was completely certain, yet she longed, longed, for him to deny it. Suddenly she was burning. Fury, agony, fear lit a fire beneath her ribs. She had no breath. “Tell me. Did he suffer? Did he suffer, Edward?”
“No!” The king stood. He reached for Anne but she stepped back. She would not allow him to touch her.
And then she saw the tall cloaked woman. The light from the rising moon touched her face, a face made hardly human by the patterns of swirling blue tattoos. Anne lifted her hand in acknowledgment; they were old friends, old companions. Slowly, she turned back to the king. “And the boy. Margaret of Anjou’s son. Did you kill my half-brother also?”
Edward Plantagenet was haggard as a specter. The sound of the waterfall was suddenly very loud, the rushing water echoing the pulse of blood in their veins. “It was necessary. While either of them lived, the throne was in danger. I… it had to be done.”
“You killed them both. My father and my brother. Now I’ll never know if we could have loved each other. If they could have loved me.”
He could say nothing; there was nothing to say.
Anne closed her eyes. “I understand. I understand why you had to do it.” It was true. She did understand. One person’s life was nothing, meant nothing. “But this is not the way that I can live my life. One day our son might become inconvenient in the same way. To you, or to Elizabeth. I will not take that risk. I cannot.”
Anne looked into Edward’s eyes, searching for his soul. Reaching up, she touched the king’s face for the last time, tracing the line of his jaw, allowing one finger to follow the curl of his mouth. And then she kissed him, trying to imprint the smell of him, the sense of him, into her heart. Tasting tears, tasting joy. Tasting… the end.
And it was done.
Turning her back, Anne walked toward the shadows, walked toward the Sword Mother where she waited, holding out her hand, scarred fingers loaded with massive gold.
Edward Plantagenet felt like rock, like stone. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this moment.
It was over.
There was no white figure in the moon-touched glade. Anne had gone.