The Exiled
The Exiled
continues the story which began in
The Innocent
‘The reader is taken on a galloping ride through the Middle Ages . . . there’s lust, conspiracy and impressive historical detail to set the scene.’
Daily Telegraph, Sydney
‘I was surprised to find myself burning the midnight oil with this racy tale of conspiracy betrayal and lust set in 15th-century England. This page-turner comes alive with its colourful and often sumptuous descriptions and intriguing plot . . . I can’t wait for the next one.’
Australian Women’s Weekly
‘A gripping plot.’
Country Living
‘An explosive novel with a glamour and tension that speeds the reader along at Graeme-Evans’ brisk pace, making for a galloping good read.’
Sydney Weekly Courier
‘Graeme-Evans captures the energetic spirit of a distant age.’
Weekend Australian
Also by Posie Graeme-Evans
The Innocent
The Beloved
The Dressmaker
The Island House
About the author
Posie Graeme-Evans was born in England but travelled all over the world with her parents, a novelist and an Australian spitfire fighter pilot. Posie has worked in the Australian film and television industry for the last 25 years as an editor, director and producer on hundreds of prime time television programmes including the number one drama series McLeod's Daughters and the worldwide pre-school phenomenon Hi-5.
Posie and Andrew Blaxland, her husband and creative partner, live in Tasmania.
Exiled
Posie Graeme-Evans
First published in Australia in 2003 by
Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited
First published in the UK in 2005 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Posie Graeme-Evans 2003
The right of Posie Graeme-Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 978 1 444 77839 7
Paperback ISBN 978 0 340 83650 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
To my loving, kind, funny and patient husband, Andrew Blaxland.
Thank you for understanding my obsessional need to write, for making this winter so cosy, and for the good red wine. I am blessed by your care of me.
Prologue
T
he storm came down like God’s hammer.
The wind, violent servant of the bruise-black sky, sucked and churned the sea until it flung mountains onto the shore, salt-water mountains which heaved and broke and shattered; rock is stronger than cold sea.
‘I see it!’
There were two of them riding ahead of the storm searching for shelter — a cave in the cliff wall ahead.
‘There! There it is!’
Neither brother heard the other, words taken by the rain, but the horses knew where to go, scrambling up the wet, slick shingle, closer, closer.
‘Hold up, hold up!’
Did the big man call to his brother, his horse or himself as the hooves struck sparks from the rain-black scree?
‘Yes! Sweet Mary, yes! Up now!’ One last clambering rush, but the smaller of the two reached the cave mouth first, ducking under the sea-made lintel with perfect timing as he brought his horse, Hautboys, to a stop with steel wrists. The cave was vast, dark and the rain-grey light from the opening was soon lost inside.
‘Thanks be.’ The young man shook himself like a dog or a seal as his brother — bigger, wetter and annoyed at not having won the race — made the same faultless entrance, neatly turning his stallion, Mallon, to one side at the last moment. Now the two horses, flanks heaving, heads down, were neatly ranged side by side as if stabled for the night.
Richard grinned. ‘So Edward, you let me win, did you?’
‘I was looking after Mallon’s legs.’ A virtuous response, but Richard snorted as he slid down from his saddle. ‘Liar. I outrode you; be a man, admit it.’
Edward, King of England, the fourth of that name, choked on laughter and annoyance. It was true this time; his youngest brother
had
outridden him, but he’d been honest: he didn’t like running Mallon over broken ground, least of all wet shingle.
‘Think it’ll last long?’
Tossing Hautboys’ reins to the king, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, sauntered towards the cave mouth, the opening veiled by a temporary waterfall from the tonnes of water falling down the cliff face.
‘I hope so.’ Edward spoke without thought as he patted Mallon’s neck, jumping down to the clean, sanded floor of the cave.
Richard turned to look at his brother. ‘What did you say?’
‘Never mind.’ The king joined the duke and together they looked out through the falling water at the violent sea.
People seeing them together for the first time were always surprised they were brothers; Edward was taller by half a sword’s length and so fair-headed that in summer his hair was barley-straw white; and his was a long, strong, open face with the beauty of an avenging angel — or so a girl had once told him, long, so long ago it seemed. He shook the sadness away as he saw her face, unsummoned.
No one had yet compared Richard to an angel, of any kind.
He was watchful and dark: dark-eyed, dark-skinned, dark-haired and whipcord slight where his brother was big and massive-armed. However both had the strength of men who fought from horseback: strong backs, strong thighs.
The young duke looked at his brother. Edward was brooding again, eyes so far away he might be in another country.
Richard shrugged, impatient. The king had been gloomy for far too long; it was part of the reason he’d suggested they go riding, just the two of them, to get away from the courtiers and the tedium of the ‘Progress’ as Edward’s court moved south towards London and the Palace of Westminster.
The duke smiled faintly. They’d know both brothers were missing by now and there’d be great alarm, especially from the queen. She’d be furious that Edward had slipped his noose.
Richard looked around him with interest. This cave was famous, famous enough to have a name, Loki’s Hall: Loki the old god of shapeshifters, of fire, of sorcerers.
It was big enough to be a hall, certainly, and yes, there were columnlike rock formations marching back into the belly of the cliff, very like what you saw in Westminster, for instance; curiously carved by something too — some shaping force. They couldn’t be the work of human hands, could they? Perhaps a sorcerer, servant of the old gods,
had
made them?
Richard shivered and quickly crossed himself, touching the seal ring on his left hand. Under the carved onyx there was concealed a tiny but assuredly powerful relic, one of the milk-teeth of St George. The duke wasn’t frightened of old magic, of course, but ...
Boom! The cave shuddered and both men leapt to hold the horses as an enormous grinding groan shivered the air and jangled their heads, shaking their very teeth.
Dust filled the cave and light blinked out; sudden darkness, grit as they tried to breathe and a deep, bowel-loosening thunder
beneath
their feet, all around them,
in the cave with them
!
‘Brother!’ Richard couldn’t help himself. He was gripped by terror, a shameful thing.
‘I’m here, I’m here. All’s well.’ Yes, it would be, Richard knew that. It was his brother’s greatest strength — his calm when the world shook loose and became a fearful place. He’d learned that skill early, at Towton, Palm Sunday, when he’d used his battleaxe in combat for the first time and the snow ran rich red, rose red, and the order of the world was remade.
The shuddering stopped. Suddenly. All four, men and horses, took deep, urgent breaths in the instant quiet, sucking at a stream of clean, pure air where there was none before. Richard coughed explosively and spat grit.
‘What was that?’
The raging wind was gone and with it the veil of water over the cave mouth turned now to breaking dribbles. Light returned.
‘Let’s see.’ Edward gave Mallon one last pat and stepped cautiously towards the light.
Much had changed. Whole sections of the headland had come away and the shingle was littered with crushed rock and uprooted, broken trees from the missing clifftop.
But the mouth of the cave was open, open enough, though they would need care leading the horses out amongst the storm wreckage. No race home for them.
The king laughed. A harsh laugh. His luck had held. Again.