The Uncrowned Queen by Posie Graeme-evans Read Free Book Online Page B

saddle, adjusting the short stirrups to accommodate his own long legs. “I repeat, messire, what is your name?”
    â€œJulian de Plassy.” It was said with pride and the small Frenchman held himself straighter, puffing out his thin chest.
    â€œWell now, Julian de Plassy, you bear an honorable name but you are engaged in a dishonorable occupation. Would you like me to help you change that?”
    The Frenchman raised his head, surprised, and the sallet he was wearing caught the light from the rising moon. His men pressed forward a pace, uncertain.
    â€œNo! Back,” he commanded, and his followers paused.
    â€œThey obey you. You lead them well, it seems.”
    The Frenchman nodded, his confidence undimmed. “Englishman, how can you help me?”
    Edward laughed. “Oh, I might know someone, who might know someone else. You know how it goes. But first, you must be our escort to s’Gravenhague tonight.”
    The outlaw’s eyes narrowed. “And what would our reward be if we agreed to protect you?” He said “protect” with the most subtle of sneers. The English pressed tighter, the points of their swords nudging the Frenchman in a way that was distinctly unfriendly.
    â€œYour life will be your reward, Julian de Plassy. And the freedom of you and yours. I shall have the attainder against you lifted. I’m sure there is one.”
    Julian de Plassy bowed ironically, in recognition. “My lord is wise beyond all telling.”
    The king grimaced. “Not so wise as you might think. Yet I can tell you what the future holds, on this occasion. If God decides to call you home to his loving embrace, I can arrange that as his instrument on earth. However, a long life is better than a short one and God is merciful, even to you. You have this choice. Which is it to be, Julian de Plassy? Choose now.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Anne shivered. It was cold and dark in the still hour before dawn. She was on her knees at her prie-dieu, praying for help and guidance.
    Almost every silver penny, every English Angel she possessed from her trading days in Brugge had been sunk into her small farm and its rebuilding. There were some precious furnishings in her house, including her bed and the great devotional portrait she’d commissioned from the German painter Hans Memlinc, but much else had been sold to buy the plow horses, the seed, the expensive wheeled plow, and the labor she needed to work her land. She’d had plans, big plans, to make her farm prosper and to live a good and quiet life raising her son. All that seemed pointless now.
    Last evening she’d had word from Duchess Margaret confirming that Edward was alive but that Charles of Burgundy had declined permission for him to come to Brugge. Worse, he’d forbidden his wife from going to her brother or aiding him in any way.
    Anne opened her eyes into the candle-wavering darkness. Why? Why had Charles turned against Edward, his brother-in-law and friend? And what should she do—what could she do—to help Edward? With the king deposed, perhaps she and her son would be safer in London. Elizabeth Wydeville was no longer queen and so perhaps, now, she would not hover in the dark of Anne’s dreams, an ever-present threat to the child she called her nephew.
    But if Margaret of Anjou came back to England and Anne’s own father, Henry VI, was restored, would his daughter be welcome in her native country? Her half-brother, another Edward, would reign, but would Margaret acknowledge her husband’s baseborn child, the granddaughter of Henry V, in her restored kingdom? Anne knew it was Margaret who had tried to kill her own mother, Alyce, all those years ago when she’d heard Alyce was pregnant with her husband’s child. And now Anne herself had a son with a king.
    It was all so tangled. Anne closed her aching eyes. What should she do? What could she do?
    â€œThe timing is wrong.” Anne jerked and