The Uncrowned Queen by Posie Graeme-evans

spun toward the voice. Deborah was standing in the open doorway, a lantern held high.
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    Deborah looked back over her shoulder before she closed the door. She went to the fireplace and knelt to arrange kindling over the straw. “Politics. And the news about the king last night. You must wait to hear more. Now is not the time for decisions.” She struck flint to the laid fire.
    â€œBut I need advice, Deborah. Badly. It’s all so very complicated.”
    Deborah smiled. “Well then, here is my advice. First we dress. Then we eat. These things are simple. And after that? Then, we think.”
    Anne’s tiny workroom was the only truly private space in her busy home. Now, as a pale sun struggled to bring light to the world, Deborah arranged their breakfast on a low table in front of the sputtering fire there. The table was just large enough to support a deep bowl of fresh goat’s-milk curd, a piece of hard cheese, a stone jar of pickled walnuts from Anne’s own trees, and fresh-baked flat-bread from the brick oven Leif Molnar had built in the kitchen yard.
    Anne drew up a joint stool and held her hands to the flames; each morning now was a little colder than the last. She was glad for the warmth. “I think of Edward all the time, Deborah. He needs troops and money. And if the duke will not help him, I must.”
    They were words that would seem scandalous if overheard. An unmarried woman yearning for her lover. Her married lover. For Edward was very married, to Elizabeth Wydeville, the queen of England, who had tried to murder Anne some years ago. It was something of a tradition for the queens of England where their husbands’ lovers were concerned. Deborah held out her hand to her foster daughter. At last Anne’s silence had broken. “Troops and money? These things cannot be my concern, or yours. Love is another matter.”
    â€œBut, Deborah, Edward needs money most of all, and soon, if he’s to strike back at Warwick. He sent the messenger to me, remember? I feel so responsible that the man died before he could tell me what the king wanted. Whatever it is, Edward is relying on me. I have to think through this puzzle. I will not let him down.” Anne turned to her foster mother. “I must sell the farm.”
    Deborah, concentrating on filling horn beakers with their own ale, heated, spiced, and brewed with honey from the hives in the old orchard, only half registered the words. “What did you say?”
    Anne spooned curd into Deborah’s bowl and handed it to her, avoiding her eyes. “I said, I must sell this farm.” Deborah was deeply upset. What difference could the price of one small farmstead make in helping Edward’s cause? “But what about all your hard work? And the boy? What will become of little Edward—or, indeed, you—if you sell this place?”
    â€œDeborah, the king will succeed and we shall receive the price back, and more, when he takes back his throne. It must be done. We must get the money to him.”
    â€œMistress?” A gentle cough outside the workroom door was followed by a discreet tap.
    â€œYes, Vania?”
    Vania was little Edward’s nursemaid and helped Deborah run the house. She was a calm, plain girl with a strong back and kind eyes, who, having been brought up a dairy farmer’s daughter, knew all there was to know about cows and goats. She sounded distinctly flustered. “You have a visitor, lady. She’s in the hall, waiting for you.”
    Anne, mystified, rose to her feet. These were certainly oddtimes. “Please finish your breakfast, Deborah. I’ll return very shortly.” As she hurried the few steps toward the hall, Anne could hear Lisotte singing in the kitchen. She smiled, worried as she was, when she heard Edward join in. It was a song about lambs losing their mothers then finding them again. If only real life were so simple,