The Exiled (15 page)

But it was, there was terror and it was coming for her — Anne was very sure of that, waking or dreaming.

Sometimes when life seemed impossible, as the bad dreams sometimes made her feel, Anne sought solace in the one thing left behind that her mother had worn. The cloak.

Alyce de Bohun, her mother, had been wearing it the night that Anne was born, the same night she had died. Deborah had kept during Anne’s childhood at her cottage in the forest and though it had been carefully washed, it was still faintly stained from the birth blood, her mother’s life blood. In exile, Deborah had given it back to her foster-daughter — only the two of them knew of its existence.

If only she could wrap herself in its folds and become invisible, or, as some witches were said to do, put it on and fly away. Fly away to some foreign land where she was not known and could begin again, in safety and peace.

‘Since you’ve missed mass today, child, would you like me to bring you food?’

Deborah was frightened by Anne’s wild sadness. Instinctively she tried to wind the rituals of a normal day around her foster-daughter. Doing what you knew, what was expected, helped sometimes.

But Anne covered her face with her two hands and for a moment, did not speak. Then, as calmly as she could, ’I should like water first to rinse my mouth, please, Deborah, and then I will need to dress for the day. We have much to accomplish this morning.’

But then it was too much, all of it, and she found herself clinging to Deborah, rocking in her arms, sobbing like a broken-hearted child.

The bells were tolling for None by the time Anne was settled in the working chamber.

‘Maxim, have we received any replies?’

Maxim shook his head; he admired Anne’s composure. To have heard her ask the question, so apparently casual, so unconcerned, was an act of courage. He knew how high the stakes had become recently between Anne and the English merchants, for Anne had decided to commission a special mass in celebration of the future marriage of the Duke of Burgundy to the Lady Margaret, sister to the King of England. It would be held in the Speelmanskapel — the Minstrels’ Chapel — in two days’ time, and Anne had humbly asked that her countrymen, the merchants of the Guild of the English Merchant Adventurers, join her and share in this joint celebration.

Anne nodded calmly. ‘No doubt we’ll hear by tomorrow. Pass me the ledger for cloth sales, please, Maxim.’

Quietly and resolutely, she and Maxim pursued their tasks together, each noting Meinheer Boter’s very satisfying tallies of all their commercial activity this month, which continued unabated, and comparing them with the same figures of a month ago.

Anne exercised rigid discipline to keep her mind on the task, but unconsciously, her despair clamoured for expression. For weeks and weeks she’d been building the hope that she and Edward would meet again at the wedding. Duke Charles had invited her to all the major festivities and she too had had the seamstresses working, day and night, to make her new clothes, clothes with which to dazzle not only all of Brugge, but the King of England also, the man she loved.

But if William Caxton’s warning was true, if she were to be murdered ...

‘It’s not true, you know.’

She was jolted out of introspection by a warm laugh and turned to find the friar, Father Giorgio, laughing at her from the doorway of the parlour. ‘Whatever you are thinking, it’s not so bad as you think. It may never happen. In my experience God is good. Most things we care about, really care about, turn out well.’

Anne did not comment as she carefully finished the last of the notes she was making in the margin of a ledger.

‘There, Maxim — this is the last. Please return them all to Meinheer Boter, if you please.’

Quickly and efficiently Maxim gathered up the great, wooden-bound books and, bowing respectfully to the friar — whom he did not particularly like; he was far too polished for a priest — hurried out. He’d have a word to Deborah shortly, though. He didn’t like to see Anne so down, so worried, even if she thought she was hiding her low spirits from them all.

The priest strolled over to Anne’s work table and sat, elegantly disposing his robes to form pleasing folds.

‘Now, dearest girl — so much work, so little joy. This is not our Lord’s intention, no matter what some of my brethren might say. He gave us life that we might live. Not hide away and frown and frown over figures and dry parchment!’

Anne forced herself to laugh, but it hurt her throat and chest. Suppressed tears burned like hayseeds in her eyes.

‘Perhaps you have an easier time with Him than I do, Father. You have faith. Sometimes mine is not strong enough.’

The friar looked sharply at the girl sitting in front of him, outwardly so composed, but pale, too pale for spring, the season when the blood should rise like sap.

‘Perhaps I can help you, dear Lady Anne. As your guest, I can also be your confessor — if that would help you carry this burden. I am your friend, am I not?’

Anne had been pretending to busy herself tidying up the surface of her work table, but now she stopped and her eyes strayed to the painting on her wall. Edward’s blue eyes peered into her own; she shivered. What was the message, what was he trying to say to her?

‘Yes, Father, you are my friend. And very precious to me.’

‘And so, therefore, if I am your friend, tell me, so that I may help your soul find peace.’

Anne shook her head.

‘You English! So stubborn! Very well. It is a man, of course?’

Such an innocent request and so slyly dropped into the conversation that it took Anne’s breath away — she choked and the friar laughed delightedly.

‘And so! There! I was right. Now, we shall speak of this, you and I, when you are ready. Shall we say, perhaps, after the midday bell has sounded? Or shall we say now?’

Anne laughed out loud — he was outrageous. And then, of course, she felt better and the tears receded deeper into her body.

‘Well then, Father, this is not a confession, it cannot be, because I do not want penance for what I am about to tell you.’

The friar crossed to the door and gently closed it, signalling to Ivan that no one should be allowed entrance.

‘I am listening, my friend — but
I
shall treat this as the confessional, believe me. There shall be silence on this to all but us.’

Anne was looking out into the walled heber, unconsciously seeing, but not seeing, the nodding mass of spring flowers. There were tulips, clematis, the first rosebuds and the last daffodils — the bulbs brought from England. She saw them all, but in each flower there were faces — Edward’s face, Elisabeth Wydeville’s face, Mathew Cuttifer’s and even William Hastings’. The illusion was so real that when the flowers suddenly moved in a passing breeze, it was as if each person she saw was turning to look at her, accusingly.

‘Ah, Father — how shall I begin? There is so much — and so little.’

‘Begin with the largest of all, the thing you are most frightened of, my child.’

‘Death, Father Giorgio. I am frightened of death.’

‘So are we all, lady. Even if we believe we are not. But you are young — and will live long.’

He was solemn now, this sleek friar, and his eyes were black in his smooth, white face. Uncanny to see this laughing, worldly man — this funny, witty priest addicted to fine fashion and gossip — so serious.

‘I am not as you see me, Father. And because my past is not what anyone could ever believe or understand, I am a threat to many people. Some would like to kill me, it seems — I have been warned — and yet I do not know who that person is.’

‘Well, then, it will be a simple enough matter to find out, will it not? Money works its way and I who travel so very widely have many, many contacts. Tell me, give me the word, and we shall have the knowledge you seek. Perhaps very soon, if I can send enough of
my
friends out and about this world of ours.’

Was it really so simple? Anne shook her head. How can she have been so slow? Of course, the friar was right — that was what was needed — information! And, yes, now she did have the means to buy it.

Did not the Bible say, God would help those who were prepared to help themselves?

I
t was the day of the service that Anne had commissioned to celebrate the royal wedding and she waited nervously for her guests to arrive. Would any actually come?

The Minstrels’ chapel itself, her chosen venue, was a small, charming building and quite modern — barely forty years old — and the great prosperity of the Guild was clear in the beauty and quality of its adornments. Painted and gilded glass windows, most notably Christ, a smiling guest at the wedding feast of Cana — a choir of unmistakably Flemish minstrels providing the entertainment — plus the substantial plate and silver furnishings on the altar, were all designed to impress even the most worldly observer.

Anne, courtesy of her own recent prosperity, had dressed soberly in rich, dark blue broadcloth — good English cloth of the best quality. Her sleeves were lined in scarlet velvet, one discreet note of colour that would only be seen when she moved her hands to join them in prayer during the mass.

Standing at the door of the chapel, Anne’s face was calm, but her heart hammered painfully behind the bones of her chest. None of the English traders had arrived and time was passing but, just as it seemed they would have to begin the mass without its invited guests, William Caxton hurried towards her, accompanied by a number of the principal English merchants of Brugge. Not all of them, but enough.

Anne composed her face into a bland, calm smile and was careful to curtsey to each one of the men who reluctantly filed past her into the body of the little church.

The mass itself was gloriously sung, not only by the Minstrels’ own priest, Father Jochen, but also by a choir of Guild minstrels especially commissioned by Anne. However, at the time when the homily would normally have been given, Master Caxton himself advanced to the altar and, bowing to the priest, turned to face the congregation. Anne was surprised and affronted — this was not what she had planned.

‘Dear friends and fellow countrymen, on behalf of Lady Anne de Bohun,’ Anne raised her eyebrows, so did most of the congregation, ‘I bid you welcome to this special service. Soon the Lady Margaret of England, sister to our king, will become the most noble Duchess of Burgundy, and by this marriage, England will be united in ever stronger bonds to the great fiefdom of Burgundy. After all our recent troubles with this great house, we are now on the crest of a remarkable time in our lives, a time which can benefit us all, or, perhaps, destroy us if we do not change our ways.’

His colleagues were shocked, and an angry mutter began, mouth to mouth, but William raised his voice. ‘Lady Anne de Bohun has asked us all to be present today at this mass to celebrate a wedding, a new beginning. That is what we need, for surely, if we do not accept the need, it may be that Duke Charles turns his face away from us, as his father did, and that would be a tragedy. His support, as you know, of the lady who has commissioned this service should give us pause; and she is our compatriot.’

Anne was astonished. William Caxton had decided to support her in this most public of ways, but he had no easy time of it. There was a rising hubbub, to the scandal of the priest and the choristers, which William had trouble talking over. ‘In token of this day, on behalf of the entire English Merchant community, all of us, Father Jochen will read this special blessing.’

The congregation of merchants was now thoroughly enraged. They’d all agreed with the offer Caxton had made to Anne on their behalves, but many had been uncomfortable with it, just as he was, but now they felt humiliated, shamed. And shame can be close to fury.

Father Jochen cleared his throat. He was, in all honesty, quite frightened. Still, he began in a quavering voice, ‘Dearest Father, we ask that you look with favour upon the marriage of thy servants, Margaret, Lady of England and Charles, Duke of the noble fiefdom of Burgundy. May their union be long, happy and fruitful. May they be supported in all that they attempt by loyal and loving subjects and friends. And to this end we, the fortunate band of English merchants in Brugge, pledge that every year upon the anniversary of the date of the said marriage, will come together for a mass of thanksgiving. And, at each mass we shall give and bequeath a certain sum for the welfare of the sick, the widowed, the orphaned and the poor of this noble city — in the name of the Duchess Margaret to be.

‘And Holy Father, we ask that you keep this noble company in harmony, each one with another, and to that end if amongst us there be dissension, double dealing or treachery, we ask that thy wrath be visited on all those who forment this wrongdoing, or who stray from the path laid down by you in their work. Otherwise, if the work of the English merchants in Brugge is pleasing to you, we ask that you continue to bless your faithful servants with prosperity, the better to serve you. May we be friends to the friendless, fathers to the fatherless, protectors to the helpless and to all women; and in token of which we swear these oaths, in thy name, on the relics of your saints and martyrs. Amen.’

The priest bowed to the altar and then to the congregation, as Master Caxton spoke once more.

‘Friends, I bid you all to a reception at my house to mark this most auspicious occasion. You will find litters at your disposal outside the chapel.’

More than one English merchant looked mutinous. It was one thing to agree to come to a church service but another to be forced to socialise with Anne. It placed each one of them at a grave tactical disadvantage in the war that was being waged for their share of the river of gold which now flowed through this packed city.

However, Anne had already taken her position at the door of the chapel, where William joined her, and both nodded courteously to each man who passed.

Ten or so beautifully adorned litters were waiting outside the chapel, patient teams of men dressed in the Caxton livery standing beside the poles. It was an impressive sight.