The Uncrowned Queen by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

lovingly. Saw him reach out for her; felt it as he kissed her deeply; saw his fingers as they undid the lacing on her gown and…
    â€œWill you go? Anne?” Anne clenched her fingers into fists, nails puncturing her palms. The image of the king had been so real, she could even smell his scent: orris root, sandalwood, and his own personal smell—leather, fresh sweat, and linseed oil from the reins he handled every day of his life…
    She sighed and shook her head. “We nearly destroyed each other, your brother and I. I want to help him, dear Christ, so much, and if I sell everything I have, that must be enough. My coin will add to yours. You must find another messenger, Duchess, and I will find another home.” It hurt so badly to think of selling her farm, but, in the end, it was a better way, a stronger response to the hand she’d been dealt. And this way, she need not face the temptation of seeing the king again.
    â€œBut, Anne, the king must be told what only I can tell him: he must know my husband’s plans or England will be lost. My husband and my brother must meet, they must renew their friendship. Edward has no other allies. You must go; you must. Please consider what I ask.”
    Anne de Bohun looked down. There were tears welling in the eyes of Margaret of England, Margaret of Burgundy, and she couldn’t bear to see them fall.
    There was a long moment of silence, then Anne released a pain-filled breath. “Duchess, I will pray for an answer. If I am told in my prayers that I must go to your brother, then I shall. If not, then I will not be the one to carry this message. And I will sell my farm.”
    The duchess rose and Anne saw how sad she was, how lost. Margaret of Burgundy was unused to begging.
    â€œThen I shall pray too,” she said. “For you and for me. And for him. May you receive guidance you can live with.”
    Anne curtsied, shivering, as the duchess left her hall. She watched in the gloom of early morning as Margaret mounted the palfrey that her companion, Aseef—a deaf-mute moor and her husband’s most trusted servant—held for her. As they canteredaway into the rising light, Anne shut the door of her house and leaned against it, her heart lurching like a creature imprisoned in her chest.
    Yes, she must pray again for the guidance she could not supply for herself. This time, perhaps, other gods would give her the answers she sought. Wrapping her shawl tightly around her body, she hurried away. Leif Molnar had been waiting patiently outside the plank door of Anne’s workroom to speak to her, but as she walked past him, preoccupied, he hung back in the shadows. He watched her retreating figure thoughtfully. He’d heard every word of the conversation between the two women and he was filled with fear for Anne.
    He had been given a task by his master, one he had only partly fulfilled. Certainly, he had vital information now about the duke’s intentions toward Edward, and he would make sure that Mathew Cuttifer received it, by the fastest boat to England he could find. But he knew that the duchess’s message must reach the king in exile also, for that would surely influence the course of the coming war in England. One woman’s life was a small thing to consider at such a time. But Anne de Bohun’s life, and her safety and happiness, were not small things to Leif Molnar.
    Over the last few days, he’d come to see they never would be.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Lodewijk, sieur de Gruuthuse, governor of the province of Holland on behalf of Charles, duke of Burgundy, smiled at his “guest,” the former king of England, and shrugged apologetically.
    â€œSire, I am sure that you do appreciate the help these men gave you, but please understand my position and that of the duke, my master. He trusts me with governing this place for him. I keep civil order but for that, the people must have confidence in my rule. How would it look