The Exiled (51 page)

Anne shook her head though she did not turn to look at him. She could not speak, could not form the words.

‘I’m sorry we could not rest on our way home,’ he grimaced as he said the word. So did she, though he could not see it, ‘but it seemed best to be out of Warwick lands and away here as soon as possible; I hope the ride was not too much for you.’

He was trying to find the words to reach her, and all he could talk about was riding. ‘Would you like to wash, or sleep?’

Now Anne turned to face him and he could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. On all the long, mad ride back to York through a wet day and most of a freezing night, they’d barely spoken, though he had tried every way he knew to get her to talk to him.

‘No, Your Majesty. I do not think I could sleep. If it were not so late I would ask to see my son.’

There was such a gulf between them. She did not know how to cross it and yet each ached to touch the other. He knew it and she knew it too.

‘Ah, sweet Anne,’ his voice broke and so did her resolution. All she could see was his face, all she could hear was his voice as he crossed the room towards her. ‘I thought you were dead.’ The words were wrenched from him.

He never cried, he never cried, not in all the battles, all the wars, but to say the words, as he pulled her against his chest, was agony and the salt of his tears was a blessing.

She whispered, ‘I thought I would never see you again, never see our son again.’ It was the staunching of a wound for both of them.

‘Or I you.’ Pain like madness, the memories, for both of them. Now he was kissing her, kissing her mouth as she clung to him and he to her as if they were both drowning.

‘But fate sent you back to me.’ She heard the words, but they made no sense. She found herself laughing and, absurdly, he was laughing too, great whoops, his whole body shaking with it, as was hers.

Then, gently, subsiding into choked sobs, she wiped his tears away — tears of loss, tears of longing, tears of joy, heedless of her own.

‘Edward, bide with me here.’ She sank down onto the floor, because her legs would not hold her any longer, onto the rug that lay before the fire, a rug made from silk, very soft and variously coloured.

He joined her there and the two sat cuddled against one another, looking into the flames. Like children. She was the first to break the silence between them, the silence that comes after tears.

‘Oh, King, I will ask you three questions and you must answer, for I command it.’ Anne’s voice was very soft and low.

‘The first is this. What would you wish for, if you could have anything in the world?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You know what I want, you’ve known since we first met.’

Anne closed her eyes and leaned her head into his shoulder. When she answered it was a whisper, almost a prayer. ‘Great King, I cannot give my life to you. And you cannot give yours to me. No,’ he had tried to protest, but she kissed his mouth sweetly, deeply, stopping the words, ‘but there are other things. Valuable things that you may have. Some have called me a sorceress, even a witch. And I may have some little power to grant other requests,’ she kissed him again, ‘but only a little.’

Edward laughed as his arms tightened around her. ‘You? A witch? I do not believe in such things. I only believe in you. And you are a mortal woman,’ he was breathing faster, ‘but I should like my wishes granted, lady.’

That breathy whisper came again. ‘There are two more questions liege, before I do.’

He was turning her face towards him with one hand, seeking her mouth; gently pushing her backwards, down onto the rug so that soon he lay beside her, holding her body so tight to his that she spoke into the base of his throat, the words shivering through him, down into his belly.

‘Edward, this is my next question. Do you want to be king?’

He spoke without thinking. ‘No. Not if I cannot have you.’ Words from the heart. He groaned. It was the truth. ‘I cannot bear this, to lose you again.’ She could hardly breathe, pinioned against his chest.

‘There is one more question, Edward, and you must let me ask it.’

Suddenly he rolled, flipping Anne onto his belly so that she straddled him, the red hunting dress, so crushed, so mud-spattered, riding up her thighs. He lay looking up at her. Her face was in shadow, though the warm glow rimmed the shape of her body in rosy light, finding an answering glimmer in the ruined scarlet velvet.

‘Ask me, then. Whether I can answer you ...’ He trailed away into silence as his hands slid down her back looking for the point where the laces of her dress were tied.

Anne was not indifferent, she wanted this man as much as he wanted her. She could feel him. He was hard, only the soft leather of his riding britches between them.

‘What will you sacrifice so that your children, all your children, can be safe?’

He grimaced and his hands paused for a moment. ‘I do not know the answer to that question.’

‘I do.’ Briefly she turned her head and he saw the tracks of fresh tears. Her sorrow tore at his heart.

‘We can be together, Anne. We will be together.’

This was Edward Plantagenet now. Not asking. Demanding. ‘I am the king of this country and you are my subject. So, too, is the queen.’

The fire flamed up and sparks flew into the room blown by a cold wind down the chimney. It was as if Elisabeth Wydeville was in the room with them.

‘Edward, nothing has changed. Twice in my life I’ve broken faith with myself. My love for you has been the cause each time. But there is too much danger — for all of us.’

It was true, they both knew it, but Edward was not listening now; his hands were too busy, impatience building as he eased the tight lacing of the back of her dress apart. She closed her eyes as she felt the first touch of those strong, bone-hard fingers on the soft naked skin of her back.

They were silent together for a moment, just a moment, then she stopped his hands, found the laces herself, breathing as fast as he was. ‘You make me shameless.’ She laughed a little tremulously as she found and pulled the last lacing-cord loose and the bodice of the dress dropped from her shoulders exposing her breasts.

‘Let me look at you.’ Edward’s voice was husky and his mouth dry from desire as, slowly, caressingly, his eyes roamed her body, the architecture of her shoulders, her breasts, as the fire light found sumptuous shadows, delicate tendrils of hair, the whorl of an ear as she turned her head to look into his eyes.

He did not touch her, waiting; he would not make the first move now. She must agree freely to what they would do together.

‘Help me, Anne.’ It was a husky plea for deliverance.

‘Yes,’ she breathed one word in reply as she gathered the material of the riding habit and eased it off completely, over her head.

She was naked now, straddling his lap. He groaned as she leaned towards him teasingly, allowing her breasts to touch his chest through his muslin shirt.

He shivered, aching to touch her, but restrained himself as she pulled the soft material from the points on his britches, so slowly, one by one.

Then his chest was naked and she leaned forward to kiss the base of his pulsing throat. He could bear it no longer; roughly he pulled her to him, skin to skin as his fingers fumbled between them, tearing at the lacing of his riding breeches.

‘Take me in to you,’ he spoke into her mouth as she kissed him, deeper, deeper, gently moving her hips against his, sliding against him as he freed himself from the soft buckskin.

Breathing as one, slowly, so exquisitely, she straddled him for one unbearable moment and then sank her body over his, so that her weight pushed him high inside her belly. Holding his breath, allowing himself to be encompassed, they both gasped with that first deep sense of his heat inside her body; she embracing him as he held her, breasts flattened against his chest. And then she began to move.

They were both silent because the alternative was to scream, but as she knelt, parted thighs on either side of him, moving slowly at first then faster and faster — sliding on him, whimpering, mewing — he cupped his palms beneath her soft buttocks, guiding her, half sitting to hold her tighter to him so that he could take himself ever deeper into her belly. He wanted her, wanted every particle of her slick, soft body, breasts and belly and legs and ...

He had her on her back now, so fast she did not feel him move until he lay on top of her, his weight pinning her as now he moved faster, faster, and deeper, deeper and harder ... and she felt helpless, boneless, open ...

‘I am hungry, therefore feed me.’ She said it to his chest, but he heard it in his groin. He growled deeply, breath more and more ragged, and the bliss, the hot, slick almost-pain building and building between them — their own fire, greater than the oak wood burning to ash in the fireplace behind them — that it had to end, must end.

‘Aaaaaah.’ Now it was a scream, a scream that built from the pit of her belly, from between her legs where he filled her and forced her ever more deeply open, and travelled from her chest to her mouth where he ate it with a savage kiss as the sweet explosion took them both and he collapsed onto her, holding her, holding her, holding her.

He would think about tomorrow when tomorrow came.

T
he little boy woke in his new bed — the bed that the duke had caused to be made for him alone. It was a good bed, this one, painted dark green with horses drawn on it, and curling tendrils with leaves and red apples amongst the horses. He liked the bed, liked waking up in it.

This morning, however, was different, and for the very good reason that he awoke to kisses, and tears: that was what woke him, salt water falling onto his face.

He was awake properly now and so happy, here was Wissy, back again! He was clinging to her now and she smelt so good, like flowers. She held him fiercely tight against her body, feeling his small heart beating.

‘Hello, my darling. Oh, my lamb.’

She looked up from her son’s embrace at the people she loved, the king, Deborah, even Richard, all watching as she was reunited with her son.

The duke, standing beside his brother the king, was amazed. See the three of them together, Anne, little Edward, and the king, and you would never, ever mistake them for anything but mother, son and father.

Pain and happiness. Such a potent combination.

Anne looked at the king. ‘Time to go home, Your Majesty, time for us to journey south.’ She smiled with her mouth, though it did not reach her eyes.

The little boy touched the wet which came from his aunt’s eyes, and tasted it. Salt. He giggled, and she laughed, she couldn’t help it.

‘Edward, the king has brought you a present. Haven’t you, sire?’

Somewhat helplessly, she turned to the king, eyes appealing for help.

‘Yes, it’s very special.’ Edward smiled cheerfully at his son as he strode over to the little boy’s bed, though his chest ached as if from a blow.

The little boy was very excited. People kept giving him presents these days, that was one of the good things about being here in Duke Richard’s castle — but not as good as being at home, of course.

Edward revealed what he’d been concealing: a small wooden dagger in its own embroidered doeskin scabbard.

‘You liked my dagger, so I had a copy made for you from ebony. It’s just the right size for you and see,’ he lifted the little boy from Anne’s lap and stood him on a stool, so that the two of them were nearer in height, ‘it has its own belt. You must look after it very well, keep the blade well oiled.’

The little boy’s eyes were saucer-large as the king buckled the belt, with its knife and keeper, over the child’s nightdress.

‘Do you like it, Edward?’ Richard smiled as he asked the question — but his nephew was speechless as, very carefully he withdrew the knife from its scabbard, one stubby little finger gently tracing the delicate carving on the blade.

Anne smiled at her small son, standing so proudly on the stool in front of them all. She caught Deborah’s eye — they had not yet spoken and there was much to say and tell between them, but not now.

‘So now, perhaps Deborah can dress you, for there is much to do and we have little time.’

Anne was practical now, useful camouflage for inner turmoil that she could only just control. But the boy was not listening, jigging up and down, waving his own little dagger, flourishing it!

Over the head of the dancing child, as Deborah tried to scoop him up to be dressed in the garderobe, Anne and Edward gazed at each other, glance locked to glance, then, after one long moment Anne broke the silence between them as their son bellowed with outrage, being washed by Deborah in cold water.

‘My liege, I thank you and your brother the duke for everything that you have done to reunite us all.’ The words had levels of meaning known only to Edward and herself, but Anne curtsied formally to Edward, subject to king, and then to Richard, who bowed in return, from the waist, equal to equal. ‘Lord Duke, I gratefully accept your kind offer of an escort for we must be away home.’

Edward found it hard to speak. ‘Would you break your fast here, before you leave?’

Anne sighed. And shook her head.

‘We will breakfast on the road. Fair weather does not last long at this season.’

There was a catch in her voice as she said it. It was a bright, blue day today outside, and the freeze last night would have set the roads better than they had been for many days. But that would not last and the ways would again be deep and treacherous before the journey was done — for all of them.

He stood on the battlements and watched the party of his soldiers surrounding the two women and the boy, leave.

He had given her the best: Walter was with her, and Geoffrey Luttrell. They were well armed and well provided for, and Anne was riding the little mare the earl had given her on the hunt. It was a measure of the horse’s quality that one night’s rest and good barley and bran mash had restored her well enough for the long journey south, the journey that would take Anne away from him, out of his life. But she was alive, at least she was alive.