‘And the king? Will he come here, to Brugge?’
Anne responded — her voice far away, as were her eyes. ‘Nothing is certain.’
‘I’ll pray that your venture is a safe one.’ Poor Deborah — the anguish in her voice was plain.
Safe? Anne shivered. Was anything ever really safe in this world?
Perhaps if her cargoes were safely landed, and if the king did come to Brugge, she might meet Edward again — on her own terms?
Perhaps. Only perhaps — on both counts.
Chapter Eight
There was discussion about the Lady Margaret’s wedding in London too, after a morning’s hunting, for Edward was now deep in the planning to transport members of the Court of Westminster to Brugge, that is, if the king was finally able to convince his sister of her duty to marry Duke Charles.
Margaret was headstrong. Hers was the power of acknowledged beauty coupled with much of the king’s own force of character. She was accustomed to being indulged. However, she was in her early twenties, old for a royal bride, and Edward was entirely determined to make her see reason before she lost the currency of youth on the international royal bridal market.
This alliance with Burgundy was most necessary if Edward was to win the ever-expanding battle for influence on the continent and head off French ambitions for European dominance. In a way his sister was making the marriage he might himself have made — to a member of the Burgundian Ducal House — if he hadn’t happened to have met Elisabeth Wydeville first, sheltering from a storm under the oak trees at Greenwich.
And too, Edward was neither stupid nor heartless. As a brother he understood his little sister might be repulsed at the thought of marrying a widower some years older than she was, especially when there were so many gallants at home literally panting to be her husband — but Margaret could have no choice if he so instructed her. To oppose his will in the matter of her marriage was, after all, treason. What did royal children exist for if not to help the future of their houses by intermarriage with allies?
Excellent in theory, of course, but difficult in practice. Margaret was his sister and painfully direct at times, just as he was. Only this morning, she’d flung into his face his own hasty marriage to Elisabeth Wydeville in the most strident terms. That had hardly been for the good of the country, had it? Edward hadn’t brought a useful alliance of any kind to the House of York with that marriage, had he? And he’d defied Warwick’s plans for a French alliance in marrying his base-born old queen — look at the trouble he’d caused doing that!
Sadly that same queen, entering the room unexpectedly in the middle of this very frank confrontation, heard Margaret’s viciously energetic remarks with unflattering clarity. Alas.
The queen knew well the king’s family resented her marriage to Edward, and was therefore implacable in her determination that they acknowledge her in every possible way as God’s chosen, anointed queen. She was also more than sensitive to being five years older than her husband at a court filled to bursting with ambitious, well-born girls all enthusiastically determined to provide the king with any kind of sexual favour he might require.
Margaret’s heated remarks, therefore, were fat on the fire when Elisabeth heard them. Outraged, the queen demanded from Edward that the Lady Margaret and her mother, Duchess Cicely, suffer for their scorn of her — and in a public way before the court!
Her dangerous mood was partly caused by the fact that she’d become certain at last, this morning, that she was in the very earliest stages of breeding again — no bloodied rags with her moon this month — which was something miraculous in itself, considering she and the king had had so little to do with each other recently.
So far, of course, Elisabeth had only borne Edward girls and she was very sensitive about it. Each pregnancy raised the stakes; surely God would grant her a son this time? And her fragile emotional state was not helped by apparently ‘well-meaning’ advice from her mother-in-law after the confrontation with Margaret. Cicely, the mother of multiple sons herself, dared to offer advice to her, the Queen of England, about how she could ensure that the child in her belly was a son. She would not be patronised by either of the York women!
It was more than unfortunate, therefore, that the queen then happened to glance at a small letter scroll, partly unrolled on her husband’s work desk. Neatly lettered at its foot was the signature, Anne de Bohun — and, of course, it all came back: the searing humiliation of the tournament on the Feast of Saint Valentine last year when she’d been made such a fool of by that doxy! And that very letter, the letter he still kept so close, was evidence of her betrayal by her husband! Anne de Bohun had not gone far enough — nowhere would ever be far enough away, if the king still thought about her after all this time.
Elisabeth burst into tears, heedless of appearances. The king did not love her, had never loved her, no matter how much she tried to please him, give him children.
Edward winced as he described the scene later for William’s later benefit. He’d done his best to settle matters, to reassure Elisabeth of his devotion, and thought he’d succeeded although he ignored a request to burn the scroll, since it was all he had left that Anne had actually touched. But then there’d been a further confrontation between his wife and the other royal women as they’d started to walk back from mass in his own private chapel.
As usual in earliest pregnancy, Elisabeth Wydeville had had her gown laced especially tight, and only managed to get all the way through the mass without running back to the garderobe in her chambers to vomit by the exercise of her formidable will.
However, imagining once more that her husband’s mother and wife were condescending to her in her present vulnerable condition, she’d manufactured a further dispute about precedence at the end of the mass.
The king, as a special mark of favour to the duchess, had wanted to lead his mother out of the mass first instead of Elisabeth, but the queen had taken that very much amiss, for she would have had to walk down the aisle of the chapel alone, following Edward and the duchess.
This she had tearfully refused to do — had insisted, in fact, that the duchess and the Lady Margaret hold up the corners of her own train and that she walk beside the king. In terms of strict precedence it was her right as the consort of the king and a crowned queen; she was the premier lady of England and no one was permitted to walk in front of her except for designated (male) magnates on certain formal occasions. However, since Duchess Cicely visited them so rarely, it was not gracefully done to insist on full protocol, especially in their own private chapel where so few members of the court were ever invited.
Still, to keep the peace, Edward had persuaded his mother and his mutinous sister — with some difficulty — that Elisabeth needed humouring since she was with child. However, Cicely and Margaret would not be wooed and made very little effort to hide their true feelings when the queen insisted on her rights. And so it was done, though there was much malicious delight amongst the few courtiers who saw the duchess and her daughter march behind Elisabeth with rigid faces, holding up the train of queen’s robes as if they smelt of six-day-old fish. Altogether, a most entertaining contest to observe, and fuel for gossip for days and days.
And so, later, to escape the domestic storms raging around him, Edward had taken refuge with William Hastings again in his own private closet as soon as he decently could, desperate for advice. How should he handle the warfare amongst the women in his family and, even more importantly, how in God’s name could he reconcile his sister to the fate God, and he, had chosen for her?
He himself was not planning to go to Brugge with the wedding party. The kingdom was too restless, and now, with news of the queen’s pregnancy, there was another reason to stay; to go to Brugge just because he liked the place, liked Duke Charles, would be gross self-indulgence. He sighed. Truly one gave up much to be a king. Especially personal freedom. And women! The women in his family, now, they drove him to distraction — where was the pleasure in that?
William did all he could to suppress the disloyal laughter that burbled up from the depths of his stomach as the king continued his description of the disastrous scene after the mass. It had been worse than a bad dream, because just after he’d personally — personally! — dealt with the precedence issue, the queen had been overtaken by the need to vomit as they’d all crossed into the great hall for the breakfast feast.
Try as she might to hold her wayward stomach in check, Elisabeth Wydeville had begun to turn an unattractive pale green — a notably displeasing contrast to the pallid lilac of her velvet dress. Suddenly the king’s mother and his sister had been forced to an ungainly canter as the queen hurried into a side court, luckily finding a row of handsome potted bay trees to be sick into, out of sight of the gimlet-eyed courtiers.
Naturally, although Elisabeth’s women had rushed to help their mistress, standing around her and holding their skirts wide to hide her predicament from the inquisitive, the damage could not be hidden when the queen had finally emerged. Some of the vomit had stained the front of Elisabeth’s gown and she would need to change before joining the court for its morning meal.
It was at this point, when his wife had departed, head held high for her own quarters — not too ill to insist that the other royal women continue to carry her train all the way there — that Edward had made a bolt for his own tiny office and William’s company.
William set himself to cheer the king and it was the perfect moment, for tonight’s feast in honour of Saint Valentine and the busy Saint Cupid would certainly serve the king’s needs for distraction from his domestic problems excellently well. A man needed recreational sex if he were to keep a level head. It was relaxing and good for the body, and therefore the kingdom, for if a man, a man such as this king, lived in a state of perpetual sexual tension, how could he concentrate on the more important things demanded of him?
The person of the king was sacred. And it was his sacred duty, as the king’s own high chamberlain, to see that nothing impinged on the well-being of that body. He was the guardian of the king’s health, as he and Edward had ‘discussed’ this morning.
So, yes. A woman. Perhaps more than one: even the queen might understand at this time, for breeding women, when breeding, tended not to like sex greatly, if his own experience was a guide.
Therefore, it was his duty to think carefully on the topic of the king’s bodily health and harmony, consider who might be complaisant — and he would start before tonight’s feast. Yes, he would interview a number of interesting prospects — discreetly — before this evening.
‘William, have you heard recently of Anne de Bohun? Is she well?’ William’s heart sank. After the girl had left the court in such astonishing circumstances, William had only thought of her in passing. Good looking enough, of course, and clearly close to the king’s heart. But then, many another had been so as well. Surely Edward was not still thinking of her?
‘Your Grace, I have heard nothing for some time. Shall I enquire where she is living now?’
The king frowned and strode over to his casements, looking down onto the river sweeping past the palace with its freight of broken, dirty ice. ‘No. There’s no need; she’d have told me if she wanted to be found.’
Relieved, William hurried on, seeking to distract the king. ‘Sire, I think you’re overtired with the affairs of this kingdom. As we were speaking of your health earlier today, I find I have an idea for a comprehensive tonic, one that you’ll find so easy to swallow.’
William’s tone was so hopeful, so cheeky, the king was forced to laugh. His friend was right — a man could not be a monk for all his life, married or not, and it was ridiculous to be mooning after a girl he could not have. She had chosen her path — so be it!
Chapter Nine
Hans Memlinc was annoyed. Anne was late. The midday bell had long tolled and he was ready to begin their ‘final’ session — and yet she’d kept him waiting.
He was used to the caprices of women clients, of course, but he’d thought Anne was different. She hadn’t seemed flighty or stupid in their sittings together — the opposite, in fact. Now she’d disappointed him because she’d not even bothered to send a note from her household. He was a busy man, she knew that.
‘Meinheer, I’m so sorry.’ He’d been so deep in disgruntled introspection, he hadn’t heard her soft, leather shoes on his stair. Now she stood in his open doorway — but she was in a blue house-dress and her headdress was a plain gauze veil!
She saw him frown as he scanned her plain kirtle. ‘Something else to forgive me for, Meinheer. My red dress needs repair. And I’ve been so busy all today that there’s been no time to reconstruct my headdress as you last saw it. Can you still finish the painting?’
Hans Memlinc grunted. If he was prepared to be even a little honest, he could make this the last sitting. All that remained to be finished were some elements of her eyes — the light had not been right to catch them truly, yesterday — and the expression of her mouth. Her dress and her hair — he realised with a start he could finally see the deep, blood-russet chestnut of her hair under her veil — didn’t really matter for what he wanted to do.
‘Well, mistress, I shall try. You can speak while I finish your eyes. After that, I shall need your silence. There are final touches to your mouth that I must make.’
His phrasing was clumsy — he was speaking to her in French, in which she was fluent, rather than Flemish. She’d done well in attempting to master the language of the Lowlands since her arrival in Brugge, but was always more comfortable expressing her lightning-fast thoughts in French. Somehow the language of the troubadours suited her better and he sensed that. It was part of the reason he was such a good painter.
So once again the afternoon fled past, but this time Anne was impatient to be finished. Finally, by the shadows lengthening on the floor in front of her, she could see the sun beginning the last part of its westerly journey. She didn’t want to be out walking again after dark.
‘Meinheer, surely you must be finished now?’ The painter sighed, very deliberately. Well, perhaps she was right. He was happy with the eyes now, but there was something about the mouth, perhaps because her face was so mobile, perhaps that was it. No — just one more little touch with the carmine and a hint of the black — there in the centre, where there was the shadow of the upper lip on the lower?
Anne had had enough. ‘Meinheer!’ She spoke sharply and was immediately sorry for it. It was a result of the fear — and something else, the exhultation — of this last day.
‘Meinheer Memlinc. I’m sorry to be so impatient, but I want to be home before dark, especially tonight.’
‘Oh yes, the little incident last evening. Eva told me about it.’ Anne was astonished. She’d been careful not to bring the subject up — she didn’t want to discuss how those men and the threat they represented made her feel — but she’d presumed he didn’t know of it either. That he did, and didn’t think it was important enough to talk about, said volumes about his absorption in his work. Nothing else mattered.
He threw her the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m not completely heartless, lady. But I didn’t want you to talk about it with me — we would both have become upset.’ He was sincere and that surprised her very much. For Anne, the thought of this stolid man being emotionally affected by her feelings was difficult to understand. He seemed so self-contained.
‘But there. You may see it now. It is finished.’ Solemnly he sketched a cross over his work, and over Anne too, as she approached.
Anne gasped when she looked over his shoulder to see the canvas. For the first time, she saw herself as others must see her and it was a very strange experience. It was not like looking in her mirror — when she dressed in the morning, for instance — no, somehow the painter had captured something else, something naked in her eyes, and instinctively she looked away from her own face for a moment. Let the shock subside — see what else the picture held for her.
It was a
very rich painting, with much detail in the lustrous, precisely depicted fabric of the clothes and the sensuously painted jewels, and now she saw why he’d taken so much time with her mouth and eyes. These were living faces he was dealing with, real people — he wanted them all to feel like that — alive for ever, modelled as strongly as statues, yet somehow captured on the flat surface of his work.
So much of the painting touched her, touched her deeply. There was her shield, prominent on one of the walls of the room the painter had conjured up. On it was her grant of arms from Edward: the Angevin Leopards and beneath them, two drops of blood — heart’s blood he’d called them. And there, too, on the middle finger of the left of her praying hands, the square-cut ruby that had been his last gift to her in Dover. She was overwhelmed by the memories.
The painter frowned, his client was upset — she was crying! This was disastrous!
‘Mistress? Are you unhappy with the painting?’ Blunt. That was his way, but he could not disguise the anxiety.
‘Not unhappy, maestro. Moved, so moved. Forgive me, there’s so much to absorb; my silence is awe, not judgment.’
She was sincere, and the painter slowly lowered his shoulders, flexed his neck. Viewings were always tricky, one way or another. He would try to relax.
He need not have worried. Anne was lost in what she saw, and the more she looked, the more there was to see. Some elements of the painting, for instance, almost seemed to overflow the flat surface. One of her own feet was about to slip down and out towards the viewer as if she herself would get up and move out of the frame!
As Anne had requested, there were four figures in the painting and together they formed a pleasing triangular composition. At the apex of the pyramid sat the ‘Holy Virgin’ in a beautifully detailed, carved Cathedra. The throne-like chair was itself on a dais with two steps, down which Mary’s blue robe flowed and folded as cleanly as running water. Behind her head was an open window through which could be seen a view of the town walls and fields outside Brugge — the sun just beginning to set, throwing mellow light onto the limpid waters of the canals curving around the feet of battlements and walls.
The Exiled Page 7
