The Exiled (27 page)

Elisabeth looked at Anne in triumph, and only the girl heard what she said.

‘It seems the Lord has spoken, Lady Anne. Harlots who puff themselves up before their betters are invariably struck down.’

The words were blows, but something strengthened Anne.

‘Are harlots better or worse than murderers in Christ’s eyes, do you think, Your Majesty?’

Anne murmured the words, but Elisabeth heard. Edward turned back at that moment from helping his sister avoid the hail bouncing into the royal stand.

‘Are you well, Elisabeth?’ The queen was so pale she was almost green, but the king’s automatic concern for his wife was a scrap of timber to grasp in a whirling flood of emotion. Terror, fury, outraged pride.

‘No, Edward, I am not. I must rest. It has been a taxing day.’

Anne watched the ducal party depart in the last of the rain, the morass of emotions she had plunged into given expression by the carnage, the litter from the sudden squall.

The contest had been abandoned — too many people had been injured in the rush to avoid the hail, and the downpour which had followed it had washed out the contest ground. Perhaps Anne would be able to restage it before the end of the wedding celebrations, perhaps not. For now, she needed to focus on what needed to be done. Heal the wounded, comfort the disappointed, pick up the pieces of life. Was it ever different?

Anne asked all her personal Gods for the fortitude she would need to see the contest through, to its end.

And she did not think of archery when she made her prayer.

M
athew Cuttifer’s house was a haven that evening.

There were to be court festivities later — another feast, this time given by Edward in honour of the bride and groom, with entertainment from a troupe of celebrated English mummers. But for now Anne, all alone by strict instruction, soaked in an oak tub of cool, lightly scented water before her open casements.

Perversely, of course, it was now a perfect evening with high brilliant stars. Once again the noise of distant revelry in the city wafted into her private solar on a warm and gentle wind.

Behind her, in the shadows of the room, a dress of delicate ivory silk was laid out on her bed. A present from Mathew Cuttifer as a thank offering for Anne’s acumen — her bold spirit and natural ability as a trader had made him an even richer man — it was simple and unadorned except for diamond sleeve buttons. Anne would wear it with nothing but pearls.

Tonight there would be formal gift-giving to the bride and groom at the Prinsenhof and the dazzling gift from Anne and the Cuttifers had been brought up to the solar so that Anne could inspect it one last time. It was a wedding chest, a cassone, but one that had few equals.

Built from fruitwood to symbolise fertility, it was ornamented with ivory and lignum vitae and studded with exquisite little bas-reliefs worked in jasper and chalcedony. Mounted on each panel of the chest these perfectly executed, tiny scenes displayed moments in the marriage of the duke and his duchess.

First, there was the journey of the bride over the water from England; then the arrival of the duke outside the cathedral at Damme; the marriage itself inside the cathedral — when the duke met his bride — was accompanied by the most fortunate omens: the roof of the church itself opening to show God the father amongst glorious clouds, surrounded by angels, himself blessing the duke and his bride; then there was the celebration feast presided over by the Virgin Mary; next came the bedding of the bride with her groom (whilst suggestive, it was not salacious); and then, finally, the birth of a baby, the heir to the ducal throne.

This last was wishful thinking, but loyal wishful thinking, as the duke and his duchess would no doubt appreciate.

But it would all be for nought if Anne decided against attending tonight’s celebrations at the Prinsenhof.

After the confrontation with the queen, and the fiasco of the archery contest, did she have the strength to do what must be done — face the royal party again and bow and smile and pretend that nothing, nothing at all, was wrong between her and Elisabeth? And that she and Edward were strangers and that nothing, nothing at all, was wrong between her and Elisabeth?

Caxton’s information that Elisabeth might be behind Anne’s near assassination was both confirmation, fear and, yes, relief made manifest. Relief that she, at last, knew who she had to fight. And, oddly, the guilt she still felt about Edward, made it almost understandable that the queen had acted in such a way. The reach of royal power was very great it seemed — perhaps Elisabeth had been the agent of last winter’s attempted kidnapping as well?

But why, why continue so implacable when Anne had left England, clearly choosing exile over a life near Edward as his leman?

Suddenly there was a loud offended squeal from the annex next to her solar — a declaration of will from little Edward in his nursery next door as Jenna tried to get him ready for bed. He was still excited by all the comings and goings of the, day and Jenna was having a difficult time persuading him into his tiny nightshirt.

There was a rising note of temper in his voice and Anne couldn’t help smiling. Not for nothing was he Edward Plantagenet’s son.

‘Jenna? Let him come in. I’ve finished.’

Anne clambered over the side of the big wooden tub as the little boy staggered into the room holding on to the edges of the furniture; Anne was very proud of her son and she marvelled at how physically forward he was. He’d recently taken his first steps and now, wobbling forward, crowing happily, made an unexpected dive at her wet legs as she tried, in vain, to swaddle herself in the linen bath sheet as he clung to her knees.

Anne scooped him up to cuddle, delighting in the smell of him, his skin, his hair. Her son had no way of knowing how much she wanted to stay and have a very quiet night at home in the solar. Perhaps even read Edward a story from her beautifully lettered and illustrated copy of
The Parliament of Fowls
by Geoffrey Chaucer, or even, one of the fables of Aesop, another precious, wonderfully decorated manuscript, bound between ivory plates, that she now owned.

Sometimes, when she looked at her books, she was awed. The transformation of her own fortune, her great good luck, meant her small, recently acquired library of books was worth more than an actual house in the city of London itself! Soon, perhaps, she would find her own home, begin to live a truly independent life, when the king had gone back to England.

Letting Jenna dry her, Anne stroked her son’s head as he looked up at her.

‘Well, sweet child, I think I must go tonight.’ He set up a howling and she almost laughed: he was too little to understand what she meant, surely? She placed one finger on his lips, ‘If you are very good, after Jenna has dressed you, we can have our story before bed.’

Anne could see the disapproval in Jenna’s eyes as she kissed the child and made him giggle again, but she ignored her. All the staff thought she indulged little Edward too much, but how could it be a sin to love a child too much? That was all anyone needed, wasn’t it? Love, enough food and warmth, and security? Children, at heart, were simple beings; perhaps adults too, were simpler than they seemed.

She sighed, eyes far away, then, shaking her head, smiled. She’d made up her mind. ‘Just one story, Edward. Then I must dress. Jenna, can you fetch Aesop for me please?’ The girl said nothing as she went to the small locked cupboard where Anne’s books were kept, but her mistress understood her reluctance. Aesop was a heathen, a pagan. In Jenna’s terms, to read the little boy these beguiling fables was to invite the devil to take possession of his small, defenceless mind.

‘Thank you, Jenna. Would you like to stay and listen?’ It was kindly meant. If Jenna could only bring herself to hear what Aesop said, she would find there was no harm in his stories.

With a slight shake of the head, the girl curtsied quickly and made for the door, her arms full of the wet bath sheets — Anne was now decently covered in a silk dressing robe — and the child’s dirty clothes.

Edward might not have the words to say it yet, but he saw that he’d won this battle, so he was a happy little boy as he settled himself beside Anne on her big bed to hear the story. The triumphant expression on his small, shiningly clean face made Anne laugh and turned her heart over.

Could she ever allow this child to figure in the succession of England? Should they go back together with the king, if he revoked her exile? The thought was a knife in her heart for so many reasons. None could have a greater right to the throne, ever, than her son — the son of a king, Edward, the grandson of two more through her — but thrones came at such a price. And Elisabeth would be there, the rightful queen, wife of the king. Elisabeth, who’d tried to kill her, possibly twice; what would she do when she found out about Anne’s son — Edward’s son — she who’d only had girls?

The little boy snuggled into her side and Anne gently smoothed his brow, feathering the soft, soft hair. ‘So which story tonight, Edward?’

‘So, which story tonight, Edward?’

One small fat finger hovered as she turned the pages of the precious manuscript carefully, until he pointed insistently at the picture of a sorrowful-looking lion holding up his paw.

‘Very well — the lion with a thorn in his paw. Are you ready? We shall begin.’ The little boy was drowsy and content now as they cuddled together, just as a barrage of heavy knocks beat on the solar door.

Anne was annoyed — Edward was wide awake again with this interruption to their night-time ritual.

‘Yes? What is it?’

Suddenly the door was thrown back and a tall figure, muffled to the eyes in a long cloak, stood staring at her. Behind him she saw Ivan, face contorted by fury, ripping his sword from its scabbard.

‘NO!’ Anne screamed at the Magyar servant and he faltered in his charge for one astonished moment as Anne sprang off the bed towards the unknown man. The little boy was so confused by the drama he forgot to scream, though his mouth fell open in surprise.

‘Ivan, no! It’s alright. Truly. At least, I think it’s alright. You, sir, must be a messenger from the king? Deborah?’

How Anne found the presence of mind to concoct the story was impossible to tell, but her foster-mother running in behind Ivan lent breathless, instant support.

‘Ivan. Yes. The king has sent his messenger to Lady Anne. Makim let him in. There is no danger, truly.’

The last words were delivered heavily; Deborah thought the opposite, since Anne’s face transfigured with joy, staring at the stranger.

‘Come. When we are needed, we will be called. Shall I take Edward, Lady Anne?’

‘No!’ The man spoke suddenly. ‘The king wishes to know certain things about this boy.’

It was very unlike little Edward to remain silent. Usually he was irrepressible, even with strangers, but now, gazing solemnly up at this pillar of darkness, the stranger in his ‘aunt’s’ room, the little boy allowed his jewelled gaze to rest, detached and benign, on this interesting intrusion into his life.

‘Deborah? Before you go, give me a shawl? Ivan, please remain outside my door and do not allow anyone, I mean anyone, entrance. Is that clear?’

Deborah wrapped Anne’s shoulders in a swathe of embroidered silk, then, as her foster-mother left, quietly closing the door behind her, Anne swallowed the panic she felt as if it were a physical thing, and broke the silence.

‘Come here, Edward.’ Heart pounding, she picked the little boy up and held him tightly. He wriggled in her grasp and suddenly held out his arms to the man.

The stranger laughed warmly and dropped the cloak back from his face. Reaching over, he plucked the child from Anne’s arms.

‘And are you good to your aunt, Edward? You have much to thank her for, you know.’

The little boy giggled, almost as if he understood what the king, his father, was saying. Then his eyes chanced on the glittering jet buttons of the king’s tunic: they were fascinating; he tried to bite one.

‘Edward! No!’

Anne tried to detach the little boy from the king’s chest but he set up an enormous howl and clung like a welk on a rock.

Suddenly both adults were laughing at the absurdity, and the baby stopped crying. Even gave them a watery giggle. That set all of them off, and soon all three were clinging together helpless with happiness.

Then, after the laughter, Anne and Edward gazed at each other.

‘I want to touch you, Anne.’

He whispered it, almost a breath.

‘And I you. But we cannot.’

She was shaking.

‘Will you come tonight?’

‘Should I?’

One part of Anne’s brain, what little caution was left, remembered Elisabeth’s face when she’d spoken of murderers, today, at the butts. Had Edward seen?

‘She knows, Edward. The queen knows about us.’

Edward frowned and then sighed, instinctively rocking his son as they stood there, together.

‘Perhaps that is for the best.’

Anne opened her mouth to speak the words which waited there, the words which would change things between them and make it harder, much harder for her to return to England: your queen tried to kill me ... But the little boy yawned in their arms, close to sleep after all the excitement — and the moment was gone. Some instinct, buried deep, had spoken. ‘Not now, later. Think on this more. Get proof before you tell him.’

Gently the king cuddled the boy to his chest and carried him to Anne’s bed. With the ease of a practised father, he made a nest for his son from pillows and a bolster. Kissing the baby gently, he laid him down and pulled the coverlet up to cover him.

Anne’s heart caught to see the two of them together: the tiny boy so trusting as this enormous stranger, the lover she craved beyond food, beyond salt, smoothed his son’s brow until his eyelids fluttered, and closed.

Standing, the king held out his arms and Anne, as trustingly as her son, walked into them.

‘And so, will you come?’ He whispered it into her hair, unbound from the bath. Soon he was nuzzling her neck, lower, lower. ‘Say you’ll come.’