The Exiled (30 page)

Taking the cloth, wringing it out, Deborah touched Anne on the cheek, looking deep into her eyes. ‘It has to be faced, Anne.’ The girl said nothing, she couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, so her foster-mother hurried on.

‘You have to let him go. You must. I’ve asked for guidance, but the messages do not change, try as I do to make them. There is very great danger. You must listen to me.’

‘Am I cursed, Deborah?’

Her foster-mother was suddenly angry. ‘Cursed? How can you be so foolish, or so selfish? You, who have so much given to you?’

Anger. Guilt. Shame. Defiance. They ran together like acid in Anne’s gut. ‘Ah, that is not fair. The queen tried to kill me.’

‘And you have stolen her husband — and deserted your child for an adulterous affair. Night after night he’s cried himself to sleep without you.’

It was like a slap with a cold, hard hand. And it was true; it was all true. Anne had sunk herself into sensuality to avoid reality — for reality carried the choice she had to make and would do anything to avoid. The blind and heedless passion she felt for Edward had been more powerful than love of her son, and her responsibility to his future.

The swaddling cloak of denial was ripped away and suddenly, so clearly, she saw that she’d surrendered her hard-won independence to the king like any other lovestruck witless ninny. And, deep in lust, she’d compromised everything she believed in, everything she’d so painfully built. Her behaviour proved the English merchants right. She
was
a foolish woman, totally unfitted to carry authority, a mere chattel ruled by her basest instincts. A
plaything.

The shame was overwhelming as the rosy dream of the last days snuffed out.

Deborah took the girl’s hand and led her to the window seat. Silently they both sat, so close together that whispers seemed natural.

‘Have you told the Duchess of Burgundy about the king? Does she know?’

Dazed and humiliated, Anne shook her head as she thought about the conversations of the last few days — Margaret had invited her to the Prinsenhof to see the betrothal gift of peacock silk made into a magnificent dress, and, as they got on so well, other pleasant meetings had followed. It was natural, Anne told herself, they were both English; both spoke the same language.

‘No, I haven’t told her. But she suspects, of course she suspects.’

Anne closed her eyes. Was it only yesterday that she and Duchess Margaret had been laughing as the final fitting for the peacock-blue dress was carried out, and Edward had found them together. And stayed, just the three of them, alone in a rare, warm moment of peace in the crowded palace.

‘Anne, heart-stakes are only part of this. Betrayal is all around you. The queen is playing politics on a very deep level. This is not just about love, it’s about survival for you, and the boy.’

‘What do you know?’ Dread and certainty crept into Anne’s heart on a grey tide.

‘Edward and Elisabeth have been fighting and not just about you. It’s said Duke George is vying for the throne again with Warwick’s help, and, for her part, the queen is trying to implicate Duke Richard also in the plot. It’s why she came to Brugge; Maxim was drinking with the king’s valet two nights ago and he said she’s trying to isolate Edward from his own brothers, make him more dependent on her own family.’

Anne shook her head violently, unwilling to hear.

‘But Duke Richard’s always supported his brother, and he hates the queen.’ Anne had only seen the Duke of Gloucester from time to time when she was a servant at Westminster. Normally he stayed in the north at York, the stronghold of the king’s northern affinity, though he’d also lived, when younger, at Middleham Castle, the Duke of Warwick’s favourite dwelling. She’d liked him for his quiet straightforwardness, the sense one received of his pride in his elder brother, and his loyalty.

Impatiently Deborah shook her head. ‘Richard and Edward spend a lot of time in different places and distance breeds suspicion very easily. The queen’s also trying to drive a wedge between Edward, the duke and Duchess Margaret too. Estrangement between Burgundy and England could be very profitable if you knew about it in advance — if you had links with Italian bankers, for instance.’

Anselm Adorno! Recently he’d tipped Anne off about a meeting he and his father had been summoned to at the Prinsenhof: just Elisabeth, and the two Italian merchants, in secret.

The queen had hinted that opportunities might open up in Britain; valuable monopolies could go to the right people, with the right connections, in return for financial support of the king in the current fluid situation in England. Monopolies which, if successfully farmed and managed, could make their owners wildly rich.

There was one requirement for potential partners, however, if they wished to be considered for such a valuable prize: relocation of their chief place of business to England, to London, out of Brugge.

Anselm had told her of other, similar meetings held with other trading houses in Brugge, the principals of each having been sworn to silence as he and his father had been. If it was true, it was a remarkably brazen thing to do under the roof of her host.

Mathew Cuttifer, and his ward Anne, had not been consulted, of course.

Anne’s face darkened. ‘Duke Charles and the king; surely they know what’s happening?’

Deborah was grim. ‘Things are changing in Brugge. We both know that this marriage is about trade being the cement in a valuable strategic alliance. Our new duchess is a symbol of the faith the king places in Burgundy’s power as his chief ally against France. But the duke’s power and wealth is based on trade, is it not? What if the rumours about the Zwijn are true? The silt in the river gets worse each year, you’ve said so yourself.’

Distractedly Anne nodded. The silt in the river always caused concern to the merchants in Brugge, though there were wildly varying reports of its level year to year. It was ironic that the city itself was at least part of the problem. All the extra building and digging of canals had dammed up and effectively lessened the river’s natural flow; that and the slow creation of a delta at the Zwijn’s mouth to the sea.

It was a frightening prospect, the permanent silting of the river.

An intermittently navigable river meant no reliable trade into the city: no trading wealth, no political power. Brugge would slowly die if trade dried up. Simple.

‘I know it’s only servants’ gossip, but Edward’s valet was adamant. The queen has told Edward that Duke Charles is hiding the truth about the Zwijn. She’s trying to convince him he’s been tricked into throwing his sister away into an alliance with a potentially waning power. And then, if she hears you are planning to go back to England with the king ...’

Both women were silent. Servants’ gossip? Anne shivered. Servants’ gossip could be very powerful — true or not.

‘He leaves tomorrow. There’s no time — for anything.’ She sounded so forlorn, so young.

Silently Deborah put her arms around Anne. After a moment, the girl sighed deeply. ‘I need to think. Can you ask Jenna to bring me some more water? I’m sorry to ask, truly, but I can’t abide washing in cold water when I’m chilled.’

Anne was standing now, looking down on the busy canal beneath her windows. The sun had broken through the low clouds and was throwing diamonds into the water. Even so early the town was alive, busy, shouting, prosperous, determined to enjoy each moment of this last day of celebration.

The Zwijn in terminal decline? Surely that was nonsense? Anne turned away from her casements. What she needed were facts. It would be hard, but she needed to find a way to see the duke. If anyone knew the truth about the silting of the river, it would be Duke Charles — and she must ask him, she must know.

But today was also the day she’d promised to give Edward an answer. She’d so wanted to return to England with the king, to a home of her own, to a future, of a kind, with the man she loved, but that would only happen if she agreed to become his acknowledged mistress. And, she saw it clearly now, that meant placing her fate into his hands at a time when the kingdom was increasingly unstable.

And, once back in England, the truth about her own and her son’s birth would be harder and harder to hide. What chance, too, would she and little Edward have with Elisabeth Wydeville their implacable enemy? How could she knowingly expose her son to such a life — and live with herself? All the money she’d made, all the battles she’d fought for recognition on her own terms — these were nothing.

Little Edward, tiny defenceless Edward, needed her to be strong, needed her to turn her back once more on the only man she’d ever loved. She would say goodbye to the king.

He would return to England without her.

‘T
hese are nothing but malicious rumours. The river is deeper and better dredged now than it was in my father’s time. Some of the duchess’s dowry will see it stays that way.’

Duke Charles was angry and bewildered by Anne’s question. She was talking to him for a few snatched moments in his tiny working office at the Prinsenhof just before the mass that was to be celebrated on this, the last day, of his wedding celebration.

Bribery had got Anne there — that and calling in a long-owed favour from the duchess’s newly appointed chief dresser, a former servant of the Cuttifer’s whom she’d recommended to the duke as a trustworthy body-servant for his new wife.

But something felt strange, Anne was sure of it. Most often Duke Charles was easy to approach: direct looks and mischievous laughter his normal style. Today he was distracted, even harried.

‘Lady Anne, let me ask
you
something now.’ As he waved Anne to a padded stool, signalling she should sit, he nodded at his groom of the chamber. Silently the man withdrew, closing the bronze-bound doors behind him.

‘May I be frank? We have little time and it’s important that we be honest with each other.’

Anne nodded politely, but her pulse quickened; dread floated around his words. ‘I should like that, Your Grace.’

‘Has there been progress in finding your would-be assassin?’

Anne shook her head, swallowing guilt. ‘No, Duke. We’ve found nothing, though friends still seek information on my behalf.’

The duke nodded.

‘Do you have any opinion on this matter, Lady Anne?’

She shook her head decisively. ‘No opinion, sire.’

‘No opinion? I am surprised by that.’

Anne spoke the words before thought could stop her.

‘Duke, I have no opinion because I am certain. The assassin was hired by the Queen of England — though I lack the means to prove it.’

The duke narrowed his eyes, but spoke very softly, almost a whisper.

‘The queen? Think carefully, Lady Anne. Why the queen?’

‘Because of her husband, the king. He and I share a ... connection. One which will be severed very shortly.’ Try as she would, the pain still found a way into her voice.

‘Because of the queen?’

Anne sighed then shook her head.

‘Not entirely, sire. Because of me. It’s what must be done. The king and she are married and there is my nephew to consider, and my guardian. I would shame them by my behaviour if I returned to England as the king’s leman.’

The duke was astonished by her frankness. Anne had trusted him with information which could destroy her reputation and her life in Brugge in an instant if knowledge of the affair became common.

‘Does the king know?’

Anne shook her head.

‘Shall I tell him your suspicions?’ Anne sighed, shook her head once more. She had no proof of the queen’s involvement and, without it, there was little point.

If she’d told Edward her fears ten days ago ... but now, he was about to leave — without her. In his certain anger and confusion, why should he believe her? And, also, since the political situation between England and Burgundy was so delicate, the balance would tip even further if the king believed the duke had had knowledge of the assassination attempt against Anne — and hidden it from him; let alone that his wife was responsible!

The irony was rich. If she’d risked it, if Anne had told the king her suspicions ten days ago, his rage might have distracted the queen from her current strategic game, might have prevented the seeds of estrangement from being planted between Edward and Charles. Anne despaired. She’d helped the queen with her silence, actually helped her!

‘Why did you ask me about the river today, Lady Anne?’

This was neutral ground — safer for both of them.

‘Long ago politics once nearly destroyed my life for, once, I was caught up in a most unjust situation, even accused of treason by the man I loved.’ Anne faltered, fighting distress. ‘I felt I had to walk away, start again. Brugge took me in and I am grateful to this city, grateful for the life I’ve been able to make. And many people’s living depend on what we do as merchants.’

Anne looked up at the duke, tears starting in her eyes.

‘If this is to be my permanent home, I need to plan for the future. We must all help you safeguard the trading alliance — and the political alliance — with England. That is why I asked about the river.’

‘And do you think you can help me, Anne?’ The duke was pragmatic — real power often lay in the bedroom, after all.

‘Perhaps. If I could speak to the king before he goes — for one last time. It might be he would believe me about the Zwijn, where he might not completely trust ... other reports.’

‘You mean he would not believe me?’ The duke was harsh. He had a right to be, for it was unexpectedly perilous becoming the brother-in-law to the King of England. Thanks to Elisabeth Wydeville and her ‘secret’ meetings with the trading community, all that his father and his ancestors had fought for might be at risk if Edward believed the rumours about the river.

Anne said nothing, but the swirling misery she felt rose high: Edward would leave tomorrow. Most likely she would never see him again. For a moment, darkness descended like a curtain, and with it, the fury of a distant, howling wind, the voice of her own unvoiced despair.

There was a discreet knock on the cabinet door. A signal that mass would begin very shortly.