The Exiled (6 page)

Bells rang across the city, the wind buffeting the sound, as the people of the town were called to mass on the Feast of Saint Valentine.

A
s usual in winter, the great space inside the Cathedral of Saint Donaas in Brugge was icy, and as folk whispered to one another before the service began, the mist from their breath hung in the air amongst the incense smoke.

Anne walked in with Sir Mathew’s household people and filed off to stand with the women on the left side of the aisle, whilst the men stood with other male parishioners on the right. In that piercing cold, she was grateful for the fur lining of her mittens. She was also grateful for the velvet-footed hose, tied under each knee with ribbon, and a silk under-kirtle, but even then the layers of cloth were not quite enough to hold out the chill breathing from those ancient stone walls.

It was said this church was built over the remains of a much earlier building, perhaps even from the times when the Romans had lived in this place. Certainly Baldwin Iron Arm, one of the great original dukes of Burgundy and a fearsome man, had begun this building in more tumultuous times and a later descendent of his, Charles the Good, had been murdered in the choir. Now the early history of blood and struggle had been silently folded into the walls of this massive church with its forest of trunk-like pillars, its interior so dark and full of shadows. Hundreds of years of incense-borne prayers and pleas for intercession had floated up into the blackened roof timbers and now, as the congregation around her kneeled whilst the priest prepared to elevate the precious host, Anne too sent up a prayer for help and strength to the Christian gods — for she was in their house.

The sonorous words of the mass flowed over her and for this time, Anne forgot the fear that curled like a wakeful snake in her belly. She was a capable person and had some resources to buy help if more was needed. Perhaps if her prayers were heard, the intercession of the Holy Lady Mary, patron saint of this city, would help her see the way forward, would bring her light. And, later, when night fell, she would ask the other mother Goddess, Aine, help of the dispossessed, the suffering, for vision also.

Aine, goddess from her childhood in the forest; Aine, goddess of the disposed dark people of the West — she too had power, she too spoke to Anne in the dark quiet of the night when bad dreams tried to catch her.

Mary and Aine. They must be sisters, surely? One dark, one light? Both the mother of sons as she, Anne, was. They would understand her need, surely?

The bell near the high altar rang, once, twice, three times. Anne knew that if people outside the church heard it they would stop, remove their hats and cross themselves devoutly because the priest inside was elevating the transformed host. It was comforting to think they all shared this same faith, this same belief that the Virgin mother of Christ was their especial friend in times of trouble. Anne closed her eyes, the cold cloud of incense filling her nostrils, making her head swim.

Was it only yesterday, before she had sat for him, that Hans Memlinc had shown her another commission he had nearly finished — a Madonna and child commissioned by the Guild of English Merchant Adventurers in Brugge? Now as she meditated on the remembered image of that serene and beautiful face, she felt doubly certain she could ask for help from Mary because the Madonna seemed as natural and real as a friend. It was easier asking help from a friend than praying to an empress in Heaven.

But then other images flashed into her mind, images to be banished. Edward’s face as he leant down to kiss her, Edward’s hands roaming her body as they had made love together in the crypt of another great cathedral, the anguish in his eyes as he turned to look at her for that last time in Dover.

Dear Virgin, would the pain never go away? The longing that breathed through every moment when she thought she would never see him again?

She felt a discreet tug at the sleeve of her gown and, opening her eyes, looked up to find the congregation standing around her. She’d been so far away that the service had ended whilst she was on her knees. Swallowing hard, breathing deeply to stop the tears she felt in her eyes and heart, she stood, waiting for the congregation to move down the aisle towards the western doors of the great church.

‘Lady de Bohun, would you have a moment to spare later in the day?’ She turned towards the familiar voice which had breathed quietly in her ear.

‘Master Caxton, you are always welcome. Perhaps you would break your fast with us this morning?’ She smiled brightly, confidently, up into the eyes of the man who had addressed her.

He was of some importance in this city of Brugge, William Caxton. An Englishman in his mid-forties, he’d lived here and in other Lowland countries for many years, instrumental in building trade between Flanders, Burgundy and England. He was Governor of the Guild of English Merchant Adventurers in Brugge and it’d been he who’d led the English Merchants en masse to Ghent and Antwerp when the previous Duke of Burgundy, Duke Phillip, had tried to tax English trade at levels Caxton and his colleagues considered unfair.

It had only been in the last year that relations had been restored when Caxton had managed to persuade his fellow merchants of the advantages to be reaped from a return to Brugge.

He was a good-looking man, William Caxton — tall and still strong from a lifetime of hard work — and there was a little spark between them. Anne could not deny that, though he was married, very married, to the haughty Maud, a fellow English merchant’s daughter intent on buying into court honours at home, in England, when William had made enough money. Anne’s invitation would not please his wife when she heard.

Perhaps the Devil made her do it? She giggled with the thought — definitely the Lion, not the Lamb today!

Caxton smiled too, slightly puzzled. ‘Something amuses you, lady?’

‘Oh, just a passing thought, Master Caxton. Deborah, can you see Maxim?’

It was hard to find the servants in the large throng inside the church because she wasn’t tall enough to see over their heads. William Caxton, courteous and capable, had matters organised quickly. ‘Stay with your mistress, Deborah. I’ll find him.’

The bells from the belfry in the Markt were still ringing at the end of mass as the slightly augmented party from the House of Cuttifer walked amongst the townspeople of Brugge, only now beginning to fill the vast cobbled square.

The city was fully awake at last on this miserably cold winter morning and Anne felt guilty that she’d insisted on so many of Mathew’s people accompanying her to St Donaas’ — they’d have a cold walk home whilst she was warm and snug. Courteously she’d offered Master Caxton a place in the litter, but she knew, as he did, that it would not be wise for him to take it.

To be seen reclining beside the Lady Anne de Bohun would create even more gossip, gossip which would reach the sanctimonious Maud Caxton in a flash. No, safest for him to walk beside the litter, respectably surrounded by the household of Anne’s patron.

As always, though, when he was with Anne, Caxton found he forgot much of what he wanted to say as he strolled across the Markt square beside the litter. It was unnerving. It had to do with the unusual directness of her glance, when she chose to employ it, and also, if he was feeling honest that day, the succulent quality of the skin on her throat. He wouldn’t have been a man if such skin left him unmoved. He’d confess his carnal thoughts later — tomorrow. For now, he felt warmer each time he permitted himself to look at her. No bad thing on such a freezing morning.

Caxton sighed. He would have to concentrate when they had their interview together shortly. She was clever and subtle for one so young, qualities which had caused disquiet amongst the cautious members of his guild when Sir Mathew introduced her into their comfortable, closed world as his ward; disquiet which now sent him, William Caxton, on this fool’s errand!

Sometimes, Caxton disliked being English very much. When Anne had first arrived in Brugge, Sir Mathew had approached Caxton on her behalf saying Anne wished to invest in his trading-house in Brugge, to become his joint-venture business partner.

Perhaps it was the girl’s intelligence, perhaps her persuasiveness when she eventually talked to him herself about her plans to become a trader, but Caxton, as Governor of the Guild, had promised that the Merchant Adventurers would consider their joint request carefully, unusual though that request was; but in so doing, he had reaped the whirlwind.

Citing passages from the Bible, his affronted colleagues had declared it was, first, a scandal that Anne was setting up to be a merchant at all, even in partnership with her guardian; second, that no one might trade as part of their guild without first having been apprenticed through said guild — a clear impossibility in her case; and, third, that it was, of course, highly unsuitable that she wished to trade without a husband to guide her.

Thus, even though Mathew Cuttifer, her business partner and a man they all respected, had personally put forward Anne’s case for special entry to the Guild, his request was declined. She simply could not be admitted — for if they made an exception with her, where would it end?

Improper thoughts could be encouraged in their very wives, and that would challenge the nature of family structure as ordained by God. A woman should be subservient to her husband, it was his proper place to govern her and to provide for the household. The woman’s place was to be a helpmeet, never more.

For a single girl such as Anne to work like a man, making money in trade, was a scandalous, even blasphemous, affront to all right-thinking Christian men.

Thus Master Caxton walked silently beside her litter, oppressed by his thoughts, as Anne bowed and smiled to the townsfolk she knew, who, like herself, were hurrying back to their warm homes from the mass.

Of course, on his own way to St Donaas’ this morning, Caxton had been stopped several times by friends, busy to tell him about the attack on Anne de Bohun the night before.

News of the attack had been another reason he’d wanted to speak to her. Perhaps, in one stroke, he had a solution to all the difficulties her unmarried state posed for his colleagues, and for her. He would help Mathew find his ward a husband. There’d been no shortage of candidates when he’d canvassed the idea amongst his colleagues; many of the English merchants had sons looking for a well-dowered wife and some were widowers searching for their next spouse. Anne was more than welcome under these circumstances; each of them would be delighted to educate this girl and turn her away from such unsuitable,
unfeminine
notions as working for a living, whilst at the same time, the lucky husband could also secure more working capital. And there was the question of the girl’s body, which, they had all noted — including their jealous wives — was very fair, another useful adjunct to any marriage.

Caxton grimaced. Snatching a quick glance down at Anne, he knew his own feelings for this girl were far from fatherly. Still, she’d listen to reason, he felt sure. He’d always found her reasonable.

‘I
thank you for your kind thoughts of my well-being, but I have no wish to marry at the moment, Master William.’

Anne smiled pleasantly, but she was quite definite as she broke her fast with the English merchant after mass in Sir Mathew’s hall. She had no need to tell the merchant her own, secret reasons for such a radical stance, but they were profound. After her experiences at Edward’s court in London, she was deeply reluctant to trust any man to control her life — and that of her son — unless it was on her terms, an unlikely thing in most marriage contracts.

As they talked, William was slightly distracted at this, his first sight of Mathew Cuttifer’s new house, for it was fine indeed. The hall smelt fragrantly of beeswax rubbed into the honey-coloured oak furniture that had been brought from England; the colours too were harmonious and simple, with walls either a rich sepia or washed with rose, and the great hall itself had a ceiling painted a dense, dark blue powdered with gilded stars. William noticed the pretty device for the first time as he leant back and looked up, thinking of what he must next say to his hostess. He’d have to concentrate for he was more than replete and the excellent small-beer added a pleasant, warm buzz of excitement increased by the girl sitting beside him. He’d always appreciated beauty.

He stole a glance at his hostess. Her composure told him nothing as she finished the last of the venison pastie she’d been served. William was impressed by that venison — she’d been personally sent a splendid haunch from Duke Charles’ most recent kill in his game preserves around Brugge, and Maitre Flaireau had made excellent use of every scrap of the generous gift.

Strange that a pie should represent so much. It testified to Anne’s standing with the new duke as Sir Mathew’s ward — he and Duke Charles’ father, Duke Phillip, had been friends of long standing — and, perhaps, it contained a message about her future because it was a most generous gift, a sign of great favour.

Anne must have served it to him with a purpose — perhaps she wanted him to spread the news to his colleagues that she was not without friends. And perhaps it meant that some of the rumours he’d heard about Charles and Anne really were true — he’d have to find a way to ask her tactfully. Though it was an odd thought, considering what he had to tell her shortly.

‘Father, if you’ve eaten sufficient of what this house can offer, perhaps you would bless us all before we go about our work?’

Anne had one other guest this morning, an Italian Franciscan monk. Personally, Caxton regarded all friars and monks of the mendicant orders as pests, especially if they were Franciscans. For followers of the most humble of God’s servants — as Saint Francis saw himself — they could be mighty arrogant and venal sometimes: parasites, and corrupters of women.

Therefore he’d been surprised to find this Friar Giorgio waiting for Anne on their return and even more surprised to see the honour with which this unexpected guest was treated. He was a young man, too, and good looking, if one favoured the dark skin and brown eyes of the south.