The Exiled (37 page)

‘I must pray on this. Put your gems away, child. No, wait. Would you like them stored in the plate chest in the chapel, with our other treasures?’

Anne understood the delicacy of the moment instantly. It would insult the Reverend Mother if she seemed not to trust her, but these stones were her only means of going home to her son. To her life.

Anne knelt beside her bed and kissed the hem of Elinor’s robe. Speaking humbly from her place on the floor, she looked up imploringly. ‘I am so grateful for your kindness and understanding: truly God is good to those who are lost, as I am. I believe that He wishes me to give the convent this sapphire and I am sure the Reverend Mother’s prayers will tell her so also. I, too, will pray and wait on her summons.’

It was an unsatisfactory answer to the question, but the geese suddenly honked an alarm. They all heard the uncompromising jangle of the outside bell as the door ward pulled the slide open behind the grating in the outer door. Henry Hardwell was outside — they heard him bellow for admittance.

Mother Elinor tried to compose herself with a quick Ave. Confronting their patron’s son was always an ordeal; his glowering physicality and arrogant manner frightened her and he took every opportunity to frustrate the baron’s plans for Our Lady of the Sands.

Elinor shivered. Why had God sent this man to her house? Was it a trial of her purpose, her commitment to doing his will? And now she had a secret to hide from him, a secret which, though it might free the convent from financial obligation to his family, was also a terrible burden.

She’d never been any good at keeping secrets and indeed, looked so positively shifty as she greeted Henry Hardwell that he snorted laughter as he seated himself, without invitation, in the convent’s damp little parlour.

‘Come, Mother, no point lying to me!’ The nun went wimple white at his words. ‘You have a guest?’

He was menacing, but though jagged little splinters of fear lodged in her throat, Elinor felt sudden defiance like a physical thing, deep in her stomach. She crossed herself to ward off the devil, real and imagined.

‘Merely a poor creature who needs our compassion and our aid, Sir Henry. As Christ himself tells us in the fable of the Good Samaritan —‘

He would not permit her to finish the pious story. ‘Yes, yes, I am familiar with the parable. Who is she?’

Unlikely dignity stiffened Elinor. ‘Sir, we do not know who this girl is for she is very frail and confused. And she nearly died, should have died, it must be said, except for the will of our Lord who reached out his hand and ...’

This time a loud and cynical snort stopped her.

‘Come, Mother, this is all too convenient. I have told my father that I will escort the girl to York. We will allow the duke to decide her fate.’

The abbess shook her head firmly. ‘I cannot permit such action. She is in my care, and the care of this, God’s, house. Goodday to you, sir.’

Elinor moved rapidly to the door of the parlour and pulled it open with vigour. Too vigorously for Aelwin, who’d been ‘guarding’ the door on the other side and nearly fell through it into Henry Hardwell’s arms.

As she stumbled to her feet, Aelwin was fascinated by the thunderous look Henry cast at Elinor, who stood with her hands correctly hidden within the sleeves of her habit, her face composed into lofty calm. Together, the two nuns watched Stephen Hardwell’s son stride towards the convent portal.

As the porteress struggled to pull the warped little door open within the larger, iron-bound great door, the man turned back to look at them.

‘I shall return, Reverend Mother and when I do, I shall have the duke’s warrant. Make sure your “guest” is ready to accompany me.’

Elinor and Aelwin watched Henry Hardwell step out of their world, his exit somewhat impeded by the malice of the convent geese who surrounded his party, honking, hissing and flapping.

The two women giggled. Geese always knew; they were better than dogs. It did them both good to laugh, helping Elinor swallow the fear.

‘Sister Aelwin, I must pray. I need our Lord’s guidance.’

Sister Aelwin watched Mother Elinor walk towards the little chapel. It would take a day for one of Henry’s men to ride to York and back. If the duke’s warrant were obtained quickly, however, Henry and his men could be back before nightfall tomorrow.

Yes, the convent needed good advice, fast. This cast-up girl and her sapphire spelled trouble — or advantage — to Our Lady of the Sands.

The question was, which would it be?

Aelwin turned away. She too would pray, but she would ask advice for different things, very different things.

T
ruly the mind of a baby can be difficult to fathom, yet Deborah understood perfectly that little Edward was very annoyed with her today. Normally an easy child, he’d howled with rage when passed up into her arms this morning to ride on the pommel of her handsome mule. He wanted to ride with the men on their great horses as he had done yesterday — they went so much faster!

Deborah sympathised with Edward’s frustrations, even if he didn’t have the words to tell her his feelings, but she was terrified of trusting him again to the mercies of the soldiers of the king’s guard escorting them north to York. She’d allowed it yesterday for a little while, when she’d become exhausted from holding the boy, but the men were just a little too casual for her liking, though kind, of course. Like all children, Edward wriggled when he got bored — and what if one of the men should lose hold of him? It was the stuff of bad dreams!

It never did any good, however, with a spirit as strong as this little boy’s, to oppose him directly, so now Deborah was telling him stories as they rode of when his mother was young, just as he was now. He was too young to know what the words meant, but her sing-song tone was pleasant to listen to and he allowed himself to be distracted.

The past came back so vividly as Deborah remembered. She told little Edward how Anne had loved to amble about whilst riding their old donkey in the forest, for to travel slowly gave her more time to admire the plants and animals they passed, rather than charging ahead and missing things.

‘See, Edward, look at the robin over there, he’s flying beside us. He likes us because our nice mule is walking very quietly in his wood.’ Edward settled into the crook of her arm and before she could stop herself, she squeezed him lovingly and kissed the top of his small, perfectly round head. He squawked in surprise. Even so young the outrage was very real and it made her smile wistfully. This was King Edward’s son, even if the child did not know it yet; he was proud, not to be cuddled now unless he, himself, wished it.

Deborah grimaced. She was weary, so weary: she was getting too old for long, cold journeys in foul weather and they’d already been riding for some days now. It was at least five days’ ride to York from London: thanks be the weather had held so far.

London, York; London, York — the names matched themselves to the rhythmn of the mule’s neat little hooves and Deborah’s mind ranged freely as the boy dozed in her arms; she allowed the animal to pick its path as it trotted, sure-footed, behind their guards.

How sad and strange their lives had been since Anne’s disappearance. The fates had swept them up and though Deborah had repeatedly asked for guidance, none had been given. Thus when King Edward insisted that she and the boy travel covertly to London a day or so after the court removed from Brugge, she’d agreed they should do as he asked. Deborah, bereft after Anne’s disappearance, could hardly disagree with the king’s wishes in any case — she and little Edward were at Westminster since he’d commanded it and because, after all, the boy
was
his son. But, weary as she and the child both were, the king had issued further instructions.

‘You and Edward must go north to my brother at York. The child will be safer there.’ The king was holding the wriggling boy on his knee as he said it, looking down, bleak and tired, at the small, bright face turned up to his.

Deborah dared not ask why they would be safer away from the king’s protection; if he said it, it must be so. But she was brave enough to ask, ‘Has there been any more news, sire?’ She was suffering just as he was.

‘We have heard nothing more. Nothing! And not for want of trying. And we must keep Edward safe, Deborah. For his mother. He’s very important to us all; even more, now.’

He’d fallen silent then, looking down at the little boy trying to extract a jewelled dagger from the scabbard on his belt.

‘Here, Edward, let me show you something.’ The king took the knife from the little boy, who, surprisingly, let him have it without protest.

‘See, sharp, very sharp.’ With great care, the king placed the tiny forefinger of his son on the edge of the blade.

‘Soon you will be old enough to have a knife just like this; but feel this edge. Sharp things can cut, deeply, when you least expect them to.’

‘Sage advice, husband, sage advice.’ Deborah turned quickly to find Elisabeth Wydeville standing at the door of the king’s closet, surrounded by her ladies. Deborah curtsied deeply, dropping her eyes to the floor.

‘And whose is this charming child, my liege?’ The queen smiled delightfully at little Edward, who smiled widely in return.

‘He is the nephew of Lady Anne de Bohun, wife.’

‘How sweet that you should concern yourself with the welfare of even your smallest subjects, Edward. I was not aware that Lady de Bohun had a nephew? And have we heard aught of his aunt?’

King Edward stood up carefully, holding the child in his arms.

‘The lady is still ...’

‘Lost? Is that a correct word, do you think, husband, to apply to her state?’

Perhaps it was the flash of white canines from the queen, perhaps because she peered so closely into this face, but something about the queen’s expression frightened little Edward. The boy burst into tears and buried his head in the king’s neck.

The king looked coldly at his wife. ‘It seems you’ve upset him, Elisabeth.’

The queen looked abashed, the picture of penitence. ‘Ah, sire, then I
am
sorry. Will you not accompany me to the mass, where I may pray for your forgiveness, and his?’

The queen looked tenderly at little Edward as he sobbed, and her ladies were touched by the concern she showed for the child; the king watched the queen gently pat the little boy’s head. ‘And what is this charming child’s name, my Lord?’

The boy raised his head and looked at the queen. Jewel-blue eyes drowned in tears. No one answered. Elisabeth Wydeville turned to Deborah. ‘Will you tell me his name, woman, since my Lord the king seems dumbstruck?’

Deborah’s blood boomed in her head, but she was trapped by the queen’s eyes and could not look away. ‘His name is Edward, Your Majesty.’

It was a frozen moment. Quietly the queen exhaled and turned to the king, smiling sweetly.

‘How loyal his mother must be to Your Majesty.’

Something in the queen’s tone touched the child like a whip and he lifted a defiant, tear-streaked face towards Elisabeth. There was a collective intake of breath as the queen’s attendants saw the man and the child together, head beside head.

The queen broke the silence, her voice shaking slightly.

‘They wait on us, Edward, it would be rude to keep the abbot waiting, and the court.’

There she stood, Edward’s graceful queen, gently patting her belly. ‘Soon there will be another small boy. May his tears be as few as this little one’s will be, forever more.’

The strange little speech made Deborah shiver.

Silently Edward carried his son to Anne’s foster-mother, then he left with the queen to go to mass; but when he reached the door, he looked back one, last, long moment at the boy. There was fear in the king’s eyes.

And the next morning, at dawn, Deborah and little Edward were on the road at his express order, riding for York accompanied by a troop of his own horses, with orders to travel as quickly as possible.

Now, at the end of the third day, they were all weary, and, as the busy jolting of the mule on the rutted road worked deeper and deeper into her bones and muscles, Deborah found herself praying, unvoiced.

‘Send me a sign, send me a sign. Does she live? Will we find her? Send me a sign, send me a sign.’

But there was no sign, nothing, just the wind cutting into her face and the ache in the arm that was clamped around Edward’s small body as he nodded against her, fighting sleep.

T
he prayers of the Reverend Mother had an answer and that answer was strangely clear.

For the first time, the very first time in all her long religious life, Mother Elinor heard the voice of God as clearly as she heard the voices of her nuns singing the morning office. The Lord even said her name, ‘Elinor’, which startled her. And then he asked her to do His will, to help the girl cast up from the sea.

In her gratitude that God had finally sent her a clear signal that He existed, Elinor almost forgot the message, but then, as she hurried back to the infirmary with Sister Joan beside her, reality intruded.

It was very dangerous, what God was instructing her to do. She was the Reverend Mother Superior of an enclosed order of nuns and he was telling her to send one of her own sisters out into the world as a companion to help this castaway escape the Hardwells, father and son. The question remained, why did He want this perilous action? Why single out this unknown waif for His special protection?

Sister Joan, however, did not care whether God had spoken or not: she had not hesitated when Mother Elinor told her of the daring plan. If the girl, Anne — she had told them her name at last — accepted what the abbess offered, then the two of them would leave the convent today, companions on this great adventure.

‘It will be safer if two of you take this “pilgrimage” to Saint Hilda’s Abbey in Whitby. But you must make your way up the coast, avoiding the towns. And you must leave now, immediately. God has told me of this.’

Resolute as she was, Sister Joan gasped as these last words hit home: she was to leave the convent, leave the safe haven which had protected her for half her life, at the bidding of the Lord God. Anne didn’t hesitate, however — she’d been given the means of going home and she embraced it. Some days of good feeding and rest had done a great deal to bring back her strength, and her certainty.