And now she and the Cuttifers called the baby her sister’s son. Her dear dead sister, Aveline.
Anne frowned in the strange half sleep as the light from the fire flickered on her face, her eyelids. Aveline ... her name was a breath, not even a sound. For Aveline was indeed dead, and she too had borne a child named Edward. Yet she was never a sister of Anne’s, although, in the end, in that other life lived as the Cuttifers’ servant in London, Anne had loved her like one.
Aveline, who’d served in the Cuttifer household as Lady Margaret’s maid; Aveline, raped and made pregnant by Piers, Mathew Cuttifer’s only son; Aveline, who’d endured a forced and dreadful marriage to Piers Cuttifer, finally killing both her repellent husband, then herself and leaving her own child an orphan to be raised by his grandparents, Sir Mathew and Lady Margaret.
The tears were genuine when Anne spoke of the sadness of Aveline’s life and death, and perhaps it was easier to believe, for others, that Anne’s baby was Aveline’s son for he was not much like his ‘aunt’; his skin was olive and he had speedwell-blue eyes, his father’s eyes in truth, where her own were some strange amalgam of green and blue. Jewels, he’d called them, sea-topaz, kingfisher bright.
Anne remembered too well every word they’d spoken, every moment they’d ever had together. But it was useless to dream. Dreaming would not bring Edward’s father to Brugge and she had her own way to make in life without him — an aching, lonely thought.
But then Anne’s courage rose a little as she dismissed the image of her lover’s face. She had much, so much, to be thankful for in comparison to many others. She’d been left a small estate in Somerset, gifted to her mother Alyce de Bohun, and that provided a small income faithfully accounted to her each quarter day. She had good, warm clothes, a house to live in — even if it was not hers — and a small number of jewels, if all else failed her: a topaz brooch, a great ruby ring (a precious keepsake given her by Edward’s father) and the little pearl and garnet cross presented to her by the Cuttifers when she’d left their house for the Court of Edward IV and his queen, Elisabeth Wydeville.
Anne shifted uneasily in her chair, frowning as, unbidden, the images came; pictures from that time as Elisabeth Wydeville’s body servant when dread and joy were her constant companions.
For it was at court she’d fallen in love with Edward the king, and it was at court she’d found out who she really was: the natural daughter of the old king, Henry VI. Thus the man she loved, adulterously, had usurped her father’s throne.
That knowledge had brought fear, and sudden clarity. Yes, Anne was illegitimate, but she was the illegitimate daughter of a king. Sighing, almost groaning, Anne shook her head. It hurt, it still hurt like a deep, deep burn, the choice she’d made: self-exile to Brugge rather than remain in England. For if she’d stayed, she’d have to have chosen a side, eventually, as the old king’s daughter.
A terrible choice, for how could she support her father’s natural enemy, the man who’d taken his throne, driven him into hiding, even if she loved him?
But then, she’d not known she was pregnant when she’d sailed from Dover into exile. Perhaps Edward might have wanted her to stay if she could have told him, even with the risk to his throne? He’d only had daughters with Elisabeth Wydeville, the queen — but she, Anne, had a son. England desperately needed a male heir if Edward was to consolidate his reign. Perhaps he’d have forgiven Anne her ancestry for the sake of their child — this combination of York and Lancaster?
Forgive her? Better she should think of forgiving him! He was her father’s usurper! And how could she allow herself to contemplate, for even one moment, allowing her own child to be engulfed by the vicious game of English politics just because she loved his father still?
Anne’s eyes snapped open with the turmoil of her anguished thoughts and she sat up. England was in her past forever, and life must continue if she, little Edward and Deborah were to find a real home for themselves, a place not dependent on the kindness of others. There was a lesson in this attack — she must plan, seriously, for their future. If she did not, others would do it for her. Perhaps after she had eaten, clarity of thought might return and the tide of emotion recede. For now, though, she was tired, very tired and her knees ached, for the ice on the canal had been hard and jagged as thorns in places.
‘Thank you, Maitre.’ Courteously she sipped a little more of the wine he had prepared for her. ‘Delicious. I shall enjoy this with supper.’
Gently, Anne kissed the sleeping baby in his cradle, tucking one small hand under the velvet counterpane. How much she yearned to pick him up, but his sleep was so peaceful, it would not be kind.
‘Please call me when he wakes, Maitre Flaireau?’
‘Of course, lady. This so dear baby delights us all, but truly, his heart is in his aunt’s keeping.’ The cook bowed gallantly, understanding how much Anne loved the little boy. Fear touched her heart for a moment. Perhaps he knew, perhaps they all knew that he was truly her son?
She must be careful, and go on being careful, if they were all to survive.
Tonight was the tolling of a bell: a tocsin, a warning. From her brief time in Brugge, Anne had begun to believe that she could make a new life for herself here — and little Edward. The Cuttifers had been very kind in their support, but she was a guest in their house; she would not, could not allow herself to live on their goodwill forever. She had a choice. She must find a way to make her own living independently or ... marry.
But if she was to have a husband, let him be one of her own choosing, not someone who came at the point of a sword.
Anne shivered as she stopped near the top of the stairs outside her solar; dark images from the attack forced themselves behind her eyes. Breathing faster, she let the pictures come, trying to understand. Perhaps a calculating young bravo had been watching her — the ward of a powerful, wealthy man — and decided to improve his fortune? She wouldn’t be the first.
But was there was another explanation?
Had someone paid to have her killed? Someone eager to remove her from the board of European politics? Someone who knew about her — her relationship with Edward, King of England — and, perhaps, knew about her son?
Anne’s hand shook as she pushed open the door into her own private solar — yet another kindness from the Cuttifers. The pretty room was softly lit by a hanging brass candelabrum whose six fat wax candles burned clear and bright, a very great extravagance, but one she was happy to pay for from her own modest means; the smell of burning tallow made her sick.
She entered the solar with gratitude; it was peaceful and beautiful, a well of calm in a mad world. The room faced the canal at the front of the house and the windows were so extravagantly large that they took up the entire width of the central gable. Thus her room was never dark during the day, no matter how sullen the skies might be; and sometimes, on the night of a full moon, Anne slept with her shutters drawn back and the casements flung open, a practice opposed by Deborah. It was common knowledge that the moonlight had power to strike the unwary. It was unhealthy to lie within that treacherous silver glimmer, breathing night air — in itself, profoundly harmful — for bad dreams and bad luck came from Luna’s light, especially for women at the time of their monthly flow.
Anne had kissed Deborah softly on the brow when the older woman first voiced her fears — kissed her, but ignored her. The moon was her friend. It had been on a moon-flooded night that her son had been conceived and for that, she would always welcome the brightest nights.
On this dark evening, Deborah had had a fire lit so the room was warm and cosy, though a wind was rising off the canal now, moaning around her casements and rattling the fastenings with spectral fingers. Despite the warmth, Anne shivered. How close had she just come to other cold hands tonight? Without Ivan she might have been a prisoner now in a very different room, amongst rapacious strangers. Or she might be a corpse.
Wearily, Anne slumped down onto the chair set ready for her by the f
ire as a quiet voice called her. ‘Mistress, may I come in? I have water for you.’
‘Yes, Jenna. You are welcome.’ It was not like Anne to allow others to sense when she was tired or frightened, she’d learnt that in the last few years, but tonight, shock brought her defences down.
The other girl, open-faced, a silvery blonde, entered the room silently carrying a brass bowl and an ewer filled with hot water from the kitchen.
‘Would you like me to help you with the gown, lady?’ Anne shook her head.
‘No. Deborah will be here very soon, I expect. But I do need to clean my hands, Jenna.’
Anne inspected her palms, and then her nails, dispassionately. She had grazed the heels of her hands when she’d dropped down onto the icy canal and broken several nails as she’d been hauled up the brick wall on the other side. Ordinarily she was proud of her hands and now that she did not have to work with them, as once she’d had to, they were soft and white, the calluses at the base of each finger nearly gone. The broken nails would need trimming and cleaning, though — best to soak them first.
Jenna was a sensible girl. It was one of the reasons Deborah, as Lady Margaret’s recently appointed housekeeper in Brugge, had given her a post in this house, so she didn’t wince or fuss when she saw the blood; she poured warm water over them in a steady, gentle stream, not even commenting as it turned rose red.
‘I’ll get some more water for you, mistress.’
‘Yes, do that, Jenna. There’s a large cauldron on the fire in the kitchen; it should be hot by now.’ Deborah had entered the room unseen as Jenna opened a casement and threw the dirty water into the canal, then paused for a moment to tidy the room as the older woman bustled forward.
‘Here, mistress. Let me dry your hands. I’ve brought some fresh woundwort salve; it will help the healing.’
Without protest, Anne let Deborah lift each of her hands and gently dry them on the linen towel she’d spread across her lap.
‘Where is Ivan, Deborah?’
Deborah coughed to hide the chuckle that had risen unbidden. Fear did that to her sometimes. ‘I left him down in the kitchen, throwing back good Gruuthuse beer and boasting. He has a slash through his sleeve on one arm, but that’s all. Luck of the devil — or protected by him.’ Deborah did not approve of Ivan, he distracted the women of the house too much.
The older woman’s astringent tone roused Anne from exhaustion. She was grateful to Ivan and it was important to voice that. ‘He did his job, and he did it well. When I am changed I shall thank him.’ Deborah kept silent, though she was hurt by Anne’s sharp tone.
Anne felt the knife of guilt, but for now, in front of Jenna, she must play the role of their master’s ward.
‘Jenna, will you get the water, please, whilst Deborah helps me off with this heavy thing?’ The door of the solar opened, and then closed quietly. Jenna had left.
Anne rose out of the chair, allowing her foster-mother to unlace the back of the red dress. She closed her eyes for a moment. All she could hear was the crackle of the flames and the buffeting wind outside her curtains. What she would not give to lie down on her bed and fall into a long, dark sleep.
‘Mistress? The rose pink or the blue?’ How hard it was to open her eyes. ‘The blue kirtle, I think. And the French linen shift, if you please. I hate feeling wool next to my skin.’
So tired, so tired, it was hard to talk.
‘Would you still like your body washed before I dress you, lady?’ Deborah’s tone was formal and correct. It made Anne grin, a blessed lightening of her spirit.
‘Yes, Deborah. As you used to do when I was little,’ and she smiled warmly, fondly at the older woman. ‘It will be nice to be clean again.’ There was a genuine smile in return, and suddenly the women felt like friends again. Close and loving friends.
Chapter Two
Anne kept deliberate state in the hall during the evening of the canal incident. Sitting alone at Mathew’s high table, she was waited on with some ceremony as the household sat below the dais, eating.
Deborah had restored Anne’s appearance as well as she could and the household was surprised by her calm as they ate the special delicacies prepared in thanksgiving for Anne’s survival. Only Deborah knew how badly Anne’s knees had been cut by the fall onto the ice of the canal, though she’d been able to pare back the damaged nails with a small, sharp knife so that Anne’s hands at least were respectable again.
As the meal was finishing, Anne called Ivan up to the high board. The curious hum died down in the hall. Of course, news had flashed through the household as soon as Anne’d been half carried through the doors of the house, but there was much wild speculation as to what, exactly, had happened and why.
As Ivan joined her, Anne rose slowly to her feet and smiled at the household below. ‘Ivan saved my honour tonight, and the honour of this house. I believe that without his fearless action I might never have tasted Maitre Flaireau’s famous pike fritters again!’ She smiled and it lightened the mood, there was even laughter. Ivan had dropped his head humbly, as was proper. This amused her — this fighting bear was the antithesis of humble.
‘Ivan has protected us all tonight — perhaps none of us would be sitting here at Sir Mathew’s board if he had not done what he did ...’ Anne saw them glance from face to face. Turned out of this comfortable hall by violent strangers? A stark fate in a hard northern winter. ‘And I believe that Sir Mathew, your master and my kind guardian, would want me to reward Ivan for his bravery. Therefore I have consulted with Maxim,’ she bowed to her guardian’s steward, ‘and he has suggested a suitable token of the esteem of this house.’
Anne beckoned to Ivan. Blushing fiercely, he left his seat to the good-natured jibes of his friends, as Maxim handed a substantial chain of gold to his master’s ward. Hanging from it was a brightly coloured, enamelled shield about the size of a small child’s palm. On one side was the red bear of Brugge and on the other, the arms of England — the Leopards and the Lilies quartered by the cross of Saint George.
‘Ivan, wear this proudly. Then all will know of your courage. Thank you, my friend.’ Anne dropped the gold collar over Ivan’s head and carefully arranged it to lie pleasingly over his shoulders. The man bowed with all the grace of a courtier and backed away from her as if she had been royalty to resume his seat.
‘Now I have news of interest for you. Sir Mathew Cuttifer will be with us very soon — we’ve been given word that he sailed from Southampton some days ago. He will be most pleased to know that you have all performed so well in defence of his house. Therefore now, to celebrate the deliverance that Holy Mary has been pleased to send me, and the news of my guardian’s arrival, there is good, honeyed wine.’
She signalled to Maxim and stoneware jugs of hot Burgundian wine were brought in from the buttery and distributed amongst the diners — a rare treat.
A happy buzz ran around the hall as the household helped themselves. They all liked Lady Anne, but she was a bit of a mystery. It was a scandal in Brugge that she lived here in Brugge without a husband, ward or no ward of Sir Mathew’s.
Tonight’s attack would set sage heads nodding all over town; Anne was a prize coveted by many since she was a girl with her own modest fortune, or so it was said. It was therefore foolish — possibly even blasphemous — for such a woman to live outside her father’s house and expect to be left in peace. Certainly there would be gossip in the Markt and many questions asked, questions they would be glad to answer.
Anne hardly touched the wine that was poured first for her, beyond courteously lifting her green waldeglas beaker in salute to Ivan. A healthy and robust girl normally, tonight she had a headache that tightened across her forehead like a hot iron band. Sounds from the hall came to her as if she were underwater and she saw, from a distance, that her hands were still shaking when she put the beaker down.
Catching Deborah’s glance she rose and held up one hand for silence. ‘My friends, tonight I think I shall sleep well because I
know I am safe. Please stay and drink to Ivan’s health, and my own. With my thanks to you all.’
Deborah hurried after her foster-daughter as Anne left the hall, rushing to carry the tail of her blue dress as it swept over the tiles, holding her words until she was certain they would not be overheard.
‘Anne, Maxim says tomorrow will be a foul day. Perhaps you should not go to mass. Sleep in for just this once.’
Anne shook her head ‘No. Tomorrow of all days I must be seen. I want them all to know I’m untouched.’
And when sleep came it was deep enough, but once in the night Anne woke and was surprised to find tears on her cheeks. Then she remembered. She’d been dreaming of his face again, dreaming that he and she, Edward and Anne, were together again and happy, and that he loved his son.
They had loved each other. He would not seek to have her raped and murdered, would he?
Chapter Three
It was very late as another long, glittering and tedious feast in the great hall of Westminster wound towards its close. A gathering of great elegance — the court in full dress splendour — it was silent, completely silent, by order of the Chamberlain.
Earlier in the evening, the royal couple, Edward the King and Elisabeth Wydeville, his wife and queen, had processed to the dais placed across the head of the hall in silence. Silently they had been seated under their personal clothes of Estate, and now, silently, they finished eating after fifteen courses, avidly watched by the entire court: relatives, courtiers, friends and servants, ravenous to observe each fleeting expression, each formal courtesy which passed between the young king and his queen.
And it was a young court, Westminster, for most of the courtiers, friends and supporters of the king were in their mid- to late twenties, so it chafed to eat without permission to speak, even to one’s neighbour.
The Exiled Page 3
