The Exiled (35 page)

Did none of the idiot merchants waiting outside this room understand that the magnificent clothing, the largesse to his host the duke, the lavish entertainments he’d paid for during the wedding, had all been for the future of this country? For the future of trade?

Margaret was marrying into one of the most powerful, and arguably, the most wealthy families in Europe. This was an outstanding strategic alliance for the country against France. It was good for England that the money was spent. Could these knaves, these fools, not see that?

‘Sir Mathew Cuttifer.’

To hear the man announced opened the wound. Anne! For a moment he had to close his eyes and blink back hot tears.

Hastings was astonished. And worried now, deeply worried. Since Edward and Elisabeth had returned to London from Dover, only a day or so ago, the king had been deeply distracted. And it was very clear there was trouble between husband and wife.

Hastings felt for the king; the queen had defied his express orders of making her regent whilst he was absent from the kingdom, no wonder things were difficult between them. And though Edward was punctilious as always in his observances of Elisabeth’s dignity as queen, he barely spoke to her, never looked at her, and had kept to his own rooms as much as possible since they’d returned to London. The court was puzzled at first, but now fizzed with rumour and joyful innuendo about the imminent fall of the Wydevilles. There was even gossip that the king meant to repudiate the queen, pregnant as she was, and insist she enter a convent. There were even some who said the child was not the king’s — and that was why she was to be put away.

William, never an ardent supporter of Elisabeth Wydeville, automatically discounted the more dramatic whispers flooding Westminster, and found he even admired the queen’s iron discipline since she appeared untroubled and serene in public despite the king’s odd behaviour; although there were rages, tears and tyranny in her private rooms, as the chamberlain well knew.

There must be fire behind the smoke for the king to behave as he was doing; yes, something had gone wrong, badly wrong between the royal couple in Brugge, yet, so far, William had been unable to get the king to speak to him about the breach.

A flash of gold caught William’s eye: Mathew Cuttifer was bowing, deeply, ever more deeply, as he approached the king’s dais, sweeping off his flat velvet cap lavishly piped with gold chord and hung with ornate gold tassles. Dangerous to wear such an opulent hat in front of the king. Perhaps it would remind Edward that his merchants were prospering a little too much — at his expense?

‘Sir Mathew. You are well?’

The king’s tone was neutral, detached, but William saw the merchant’s nervousness. He had a certain fellow feeling for the man; he’d not have wanted to be the first to talk to Edward on this delicate matter of tax relief especially since the king, after Anne had tried to escape him the first time more than a year ago, rightly blamed Mathew’s interference for the difficulties which resulted. Relations between the king and Sir Mathew had never been the same: it was the chief reason the mercer had not ventured to Brugge for the wedding.

‘I am, Your Majesty. Very well.’ The merchant spoke confidently, though he hid shaking hands in his wide sleeves; there was a moment’s silence which the king allowed to hang. Mathew, though his breath smoked in the cold air of the frigid Presence chamber, felt sweat slip down his sides and he had a terrible urge to cough; his throat was dry as sand from nerves.

Yet now the king was gazing out of the windows, seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was conducting an audience. Mathew glanced beseechingly at the chamberlain.

Hastings coughed loudly and the king, startled, looked around confused. Now it was William’s turn to sweat; was the king becoming distracted? Dread squeezed his heart. Suppose this king should begin to suffer the same strangeness which had gripped the previous king, Henry VI? They were cousins, not so different in blood. Let it not be so, please God, let it not be so, for all their sakes.

‘Very well, William. Where is this petition you wish to present, Sir Mathew?’ Mathew Cuttifer bowed soundlessly to Edward and from within the capacious sleeve of his houpelande, the standard court-dress of a generation older than the king, withdrew a scroll.

Bowing as he advanced, he stepped up the three shallow treads of the dais and placed the scroll across Edward’s knees. Then, with anxious care, he slowly backed down the steps again, dreading that he would trip in the long skirts of his heavy velvet gown.

There was no disaster, although his breath was ragged as he found his place, once more, before the dais — a fact observed by William Hastings. Yes, he had some sympathy for Mathew Cuttifer. In the king’s current state, anything was possible.

The king frowned. ‘You are the first of many to present documents such as these, I understand?’ Mathew was uncertain how to reply, so he said nothing, merely nodding his head respectfully.

The king’s hand shook as he unfurled the scroll; it would have been good to scream, to bellow abuse at the hapless merchant just to relieve the tension he felt, but Edward restrained himself, although his eyes glittered strangely. This was frightening enough for everyone in the room to shift uneasily in their place. Suddenly the air felt charged, thunderous.

‘Why do none of you understand what I was trying to do?’ The king was dangerously quiet, almost whispering. Mathew flinched, as if from a blow, when the next words were addressed to him directly.

‘How can you not see that money makes money, you of all people? Trade!’ Finally the king did bellow, ‘Trade, you fool. You helped vote me the aid to defray the wedding costs. Now we have stronger links with Burgundy; that will bring more trade so you all become richer! But what thanks is there in this for me? Only demands!’

Plantagenet rage had been famous for three hundred years and Edward, once truly roused, lost nothing in comparison with the legends.

Brave man that he was, William Hastings found himself trembling at the sight of Edward IV as berserk as he’d ever been in battle. Mathew Cuttifer, no warrior, felt as if he were going to faint or wet himself.

‘I will not do this! Never! Do you hear me! And I shall have the needle monopoly back if you persist! Tell them that, Master Cuttifer, your greedy city compatriots. Tell them that. What I gave I can take back.’

The noise chased itself around the vast room and dissolved into ringing silence.

Abruptly the king waved his hand. The audience was over, but not before Edward took the petition and in one swooping movement, ripped it from top to bottom, throwing the two halves with their dangling, dependent wax seals onto the flags in front of the now kneeling merchant. Many of them shattered into little, jagged red shards.

Trying to hide the trembling of his hands, Mathew Cuttifer shuffled the pieces of the petition together, leaving the bits of wax where they lay, and backed away from the king towards the now-open door of the Presence chamber more rapidly than he would have thought possible.

‘No. You!’ The merchant froze and surreptitiously looked around for William. Whom did the king mean?

‘Yes, Sir Mathew, I meant you. Lady Anne de Bohun — have you heard anything?’

There it was again, something like a tear in the corner of the king’s eye. Mathew’s mouth closed with a snap; it was either that or let it drop open in astonishment for he’d not seen what William had, earlier. Quickly, the merchant found his wits, but he shook his head heavily.

‘Sire, all my interests in Brugge and farther afield are working to find information, any information at all. So far ...’

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The king nodded, went on in a dull voice.

‘Father Giorgio, your Father Giorgio,’ Mathew was uncertain if he liked the king calling the man ‘his’ priest, ‘sent me news from Sluis. Around the time the Lady Anne disappeared, a ship left port before she was due to; the captain is a notable flesh peddler. There was some suggestion that a woman had been delivered, bound, the night before. No port we trade with has reported seeing the ship, the
Maid of Kiel
, in the last month, so until we have the captain in our hands, there’s no way of knowing if it was the Lady Anne.’

Flesh peddlers. Mathew shivered, said nothing. If it was true, they would never see Anne again.

Hastings cleared his throat and the king waved his dismissal.

Mathew bowed deeply, spoke bravely. ‘We will find her, Liege. She’s a strong girl. Very capable. And I will redouble my efforts. We must find the ship. We will find it!’

William hurried the merchant out of the chamber as fast as he decently could. He was even more worried than Mathew, if that was possible, since the king said nothing more, anger shading into grief all too visibly before their eyes.

There were other petitioners outside in the ante-room, but they’d all heard the king’s rage earlier, and were only too happy to be dismissed, as was Mathew.

William waited until the subdued little knot of men had been seen from the ante-room and then, clearing the Presence chamber of guards and functionaries, he rejoined the king, alone.

‘You know, I wanted to bring her back here; revoke the exile, have her near me. But she never arrived, that last night, when we were supposed to meet. I
spoke
to that fool of a bishop in Brugge.’ William heard the king’s teeth grind together. ‘Witchcraft! The witterings of a servant, that was all! But she vanished. And I still don’t know the connection,
if
there’s a connection. No one can tell me what happened. No one!’

William was relieved by the anger, if confused. Witchcraft? Bishops? Connections to what? At least the king was talking at last — that was something — but what, by the bones of God, had happened? They must resolve this mess, for the good of the kingdom, but for a boil to be lanced it had to come to a head. He needed facts, just as the king did.

‘Your Majesty, we have the means to find her. I promise you. I will scour Europe if you need me to, but you must trust me with the truth, all of it.’

There was some pain in William’s voice. He was truly close to Edward, or so he thought. Why had the king not told him earlier? And, why had he not heard of this fiasco earlier? His normally reliable network of intelligence had let him down badly this time, and someone would pay for that lapse.

Edward shrugged wearily. ‘I was relying on the duke. Brugge is his city. He set himself to find her, any trace of her, but he’s distracted by the French, it seems. Father Giorgio, now, at least he’s found something definite, and continues to work on my behalf.’

Sometimes William forgot that Edward was a young man still, with a young man’s passions. William envied the king. He’d never felt as deeply for a woman as Edward so plainly did for Anne. He and Edward had been so alike once, both sexual predators, but something had changed for Edward, something which filled his chamberlain with deep unease.

Not for nothing did the Greeks call love a curse — a curse which destroyed reason. Yet Edward had a country to think of, not just a girl. A woman could not be allowed to disturb the peace of the kingdom and disable its king.

Yes, she must be found, and, if necessary, she might need to be destroyed before the king was informed. For the good of them all.

S
tephen Hardwell thought of himself as a kind man. In his little world of the Holderness, the world in which he was still the most important man for many miles, he was used to being agreed with, used to being flattered. The ghost of family money — mostly long gone — and traditional position guaranteed him automatic deference, though he’d forgotten the truth of that long ago.

But recently Stephen Hardwell was more and more troubled by the knowledge that in his long life he’d sinned against God’s holy ordinances many, many times, and especially with women. Thus, heavy with increasing guilt for the past, he’d thought to smooth his soul’s eventual entry to heaven by good works. He began to set his own house in order by meddling with those of other people, for their own good, and his. If he was fearful of purgatory, others were too, for it was what he visited on them.

Our Lady of the Sands, for example; it had become a special project for Sir Stephen to save the sisters from themselves, from their own financial ineptitude. With the permission and support of George Neville, the Archbishop of York, the illustrious brother of the Earl of Warwick, Stephen Hardwell had recently become patron of the nunnery. And for that, he gave himself the right, no, the
duty
, of interfering in everything that was done under that holy roof: from what the good sisters ate, to the quality of the sheets they slept within, to the number of prayers that were said for his continuing good health and that of his family.

Creating order where there’d been none before had became a passion he could offer up to God as evidence of his good works here on Earth. Therefore he’d felt certain, when news was brought of the girl cast up on the shores of the Humber now lodging at the convent, that he must counsel Lady Elinor in what was best to be done. He would meet this girl and assess her personally, sending his report post haste to his friend the Archbishop in York, who would, no doubt, pass it directly to Duke Richard, their young duke, the king’s brother.

Strangers should be received as Christ, the unknown guest at the table. However, happenings such as this should also be investigated thoroughly. God had chosen to send the girl to the sisters, therefore work must be done to divine His purpose, for the good of them all, for the shriving of their souls.

On the day he chose to visit Our Lady of the Sands, however, the weather turned bleak with the first big slashing autumn gale; weather which drove small pebbles, hail and veils of sleet against him and his annoyed party of attendants as they rode into the teeth of the unforgiving easterly wind. And after a tiresome journey, it felt like the drear edge of the world when they arrived at the comfortless huddle of convent buildings near Spurn Point, where the land hooked back into the river as if to defend itself from the battering sea.