The priest strolled over to Anne’s work table and sat, elegantly disposing his robes to form pleasing folds.
‘Now, dearest girl — so much work, so little joy. This is not our Lord’s intention, no matter what some of my brethren might say. He gave us life that we might live. Not hide away and frown and frown over figures and dry parchment!’
Anne forced herself to laugh, but it hurt her throat and chest. Suppressed tears burned like hayseeds in her eyes.
‘Perhaps you have an easier time with Him than I do, Father. You have faith. Sometimes mine is not strong enough.’
The friar looked sharply at the girl sitting in front of him, outwardly so composed, but pale, too pale for spring, the season when the blood should rise like sap.
‘Perhaps I can help you, dear Lady Anne. As your guest, I can also be your confessor — if that would help you carry this burden. I am your friend, am I not?’
Anne had been pretending to busy herself tidying up the surface of her work table, but now she stopped and her eyes strayed to the painting on her wall. Edward’s blue eyes peered into her own; she shivered. What was the message, what was he trying to say to her?
‘Yes, Father, you are my friend. And very precious to me.’
‘And so, therefore, if I am your friend, tell me, so that I may help your soul find peace.’
Anne shook her head.
‘You English! So stubborn! Very well. It is a man, of course?’
Such an innocent request and so slyly dropped into the conversation that it took Anne’s breath away — she choked and the friar laughed delightedly.
‘And so! There! I was right. Now, we shall speak of this, you and I, when you are ready. Shall we say, perhaps, after the midday bell has sounded? Or shall we say now?’
Anne laughed out loud — he was outrageous. And then, of course, she felt better and the tears receded deeper into her body.
‘Well then, Father, this is not a confession, it cannot be, because I do not want penance for what I am about to tell you.’
The friar crossed to the door and gently closed it, signalling to Ivan that no one should be allowed entrance.
‘I am listening, my friend — but I shall treat this as the confessional, believe me. There shall be silence on this to all but us.’
Anne was looking out into the walled heber, unconsciously seeing, but not seeing, the nodding mass of spring flowers. There were tulips, clematis, the first rosebuds and the last daffodils — the bulbs brought from England. She saw them all, but in each flower there were faces — Edward’s face, Elisabeth Wydeville’s face, Mathew Cuttifer’s and even William Hastings’. The illusion was so real that when the flowers suddenly moved in a passing breeze, it was as if each person she saw was turning to look at her, accusingly.
‘Ah, Father — how shall I begin? There is so much — and so little.’
‘Begin with the largest of all, the thing you are most frightened of, my child.’
‘Death, Father Giorgio. I am frightened of death.’
‘So are we all, lady. Even if we believe we are not. But you are young — and will live long.’
He was solemn now, this sleek friar, and his eyes were black in his smooth, white face. Uncanny to see this laughing, worldly man — this funny, witty priest addicted to fine fashion and gossip — so serious.
‘I am not as you see me, Father. And because my past is not what anyone could ever believe or understand, I am a threat to many people. Some would like to kill me, it seems — I have been warned — and yet I do not know who that person is.’
‘Well, then, it will be a simple enough matter to find out, will it not? Money works its way and I who travel so very widely have many, many contacts. Tell me, give me the word, and we shall have the knowledge you seek. Perhaps very soon, if I can send enough of my friends out and about this world of ours.’
Was it really so simple? Anne shook her head. How can she have been so slow? Of course, the friar was right — that was what was needed — information! And, yes, now she did have the means to buy it.
Did not the Bible say, God would help those who were prepared to help themselves?
Chapter Sixteen
It was the day of the service that Anne had commissioned to celebrate the royal wedding and she waited nervously for her guests to arrive. Would any actually come?
The Minstrels’ chapel itself, her chosen venue, was a small, charming building and quite modern — barely forty years old — and the great prosperity of the Guild was clear in the beauty and quality of its adornments. Painted and gilded glass windows, most notably Christ, a smiling guest at the wedding feast of Cana — a choir of unmistakably Flemish minstrels providing the entertainment — plus the substantial plate and silver furnishings on the altar, were all designed to impress even the most worldly observer.
Anne, courtesy of her own recent prosperity, had dressed soberly in rich, dark blue broadcloth — good English cloth of the best quality. Her sleeves were lined in scarlet velvet, one discreet note of colour that would only be seen when she moved her hands to join them in prayer during the mass.
Standing at the door of the chapel, Anne’s face was calm, but her heart hammered painfully behind the bones of her chest. None of the English traders had arrived and time was passing but, just as it seemed they would have to begin the mass without its invited guests, William Caxton hurried towards her, accompanied by a number of the principal English merchants of Brugge. Not all of them, but enough.
Anne composed her face into a bland, calm smile and was careful to curtsey to each one of the men who reluctantly filed past her into the body of the little church.
The mass itself was gloriously sung, not only by the Minstrels’ own priest, Father Jochen, but also by a choir of Guild minstrels especially commissioned by Anne. However, at the time when the homily would normally have been given, Master Caxton himself advanced to the altar and, bowing to the priest, turned to face the congregation. Anne was surprised and affronted — this was not what she had planned.
‘Dear friends and fellow countrymen, on behalf of Lady Anne de Bohun,’ Anne raised her eyebrows, so did most of the congregation, ‘I bid you welcome to this special service. Soon the Lady Margaret of England, sister to our king, will become the most noble Duchess of Burgundy, and by this marriage, England will be united in ever stronger bonds to the great fiefdom of Burgundy. After all our recent troubles with this great house, we are now on the crest of a remarkable time in our lives, a time which can benefit us all, or, perhaps, destroy us if we do not change our ways.’
His colleagues were shocked, and an angry mutter began, mouth to mouth, but William raised his voice. ‘Lady Anne de Bohun has asked us all to be present today at this mass to celebrate a wedding, a new beginning. That is what we need, for surely, if we do not accept the need, it may be that Duke Charles turns his face away from us, as his father did, and that would be a tragedy. His support, as you know, of the lady who has commissioned this service should give us pause; and she is our compatriot.’
Anne was astonished. William Caxton had decided to support her in this most public of ways, but he had no easy time of it. There was a rising hubbub, to the scandal of the priest and the choristers, which William had trouble talking over. ‘In token of this day, on behalf of the entire English Merchant community, all of us, Father Jochen will read this special blessing.’
The congregation of merchants was now thoroughly enraged. They’d all agreed with the offer Caxton had made to Anne on their behalves, but many had been uncomfortable with it, just as he was, but now they felt humiliated, shamed. And shame can be close to fury.
Father Jochen cleared his throat. He was, in all honesty, quite frightened. Still, he began in a quavering voice, ‘Dearest Father, we ask that you look with favour upon the marriage of thy servants, Margaret, Lady of England and Charles, Duke of the noble fiefdom of Burgundy. May their union be long, happy and fruitful. May they be supported in all that they attempt by loyal
and loving subjects and friends. And to this end we, the fortunate band of English merchants in Brugge, pledge that every year upon the anniversary of the date of the said marriage, will come together for a mass of thanksgiving. And, at each mass we shall give and bequeath a certain sum for the welfare of the sick, the widowed, the orphaned and the poor of this noble city — in the name of the Duchess Margaret to be.
‘And Holy Father, we ask that you keep this noble company in harmony, each one with another, and to that end if amongst us there be dissension, double dealing or treachery, we ask that thy wrath be visited on all those who forment this wrongdoing, or who stray from the path laid down by you in their work. Otherwise, if the work of the English merchants in Brugge is pleasing to you, we ask that you continue to bless your faithful servants with prosperity, the better to serve you. May we be friends to the friendless, fathers to the fatherless, protectors to the helpless and to all women; and in token of which we swear these oaths, in thy name, on the relics of your saints and martyrs. Amen.’
The priest bowed to the altar and then to the congregation, as Master Caxton spoke once more.
‘Friends, I bid you all to a reception at my house to mark this most auspicious occasion. You will find litters at your disposal outside the chapel.’
More than one English merchant looked mutinous. It was one thing to agree to come to a church service but another to be forced to socialise with Anne. It placed each one of them at a grave tactical disadvantage in the war that was being waged for their share of the river of gold which now flowed through this packed city.
However, Anne had already taken her position at the door of the chapel, where William joined her, and both nodded courteously to each man who passed.
Ten or so beautifully adorned litters were waiting outside the chapel, patient teams of men dressed in the Caxton livery standing beside the poles. It was an impressive sight.
Embarrassed and angry as they were, the English merchants found it hard to avoid Caxton’s penetrating gaze and so, eventually, in ones and twos, they were carried away — not one of them with a happy face. Caxton relaxed fractionally and breathed a deep sigh as he handed Anne into the last of the litters, intending to walk beside it. She’d purposefully dispensed with her guards today as a visible symbol of her trust in reconciliation with the English merchants.
’Mistress, you cause me great trouble.’
Anne laughed shakily. ‘Ah yes, but our colleagues cause you more. No doubt this little exercise has put you to considerable expense and pain.’
‘Warranted though. To stop a war in the making — if I can.’
‘If you can — that remains the question. There were things that I wished Father Jochen to say at the end of that service — about my desire for co-existence amongst us all; though he was also to say that I thought their behaviour towards the house of Cuttifer was shameful in God’s eyes. But he chose your words. I wonder why that was?’
She was not looking at him as she talked, graciously smiling and waving at those she knew in the street as the litter-men found their way through the city’s market-day crowds.
‘A desire for lasting peace, perhaps. And the fact that the Minstrels Guild wishes to add a new bell to their carillon. I told them the English merchants would be happy to contribute to the cost in return for the blessing I gave him to say. Don’t blame Father Jochen. I said I had your approval. Now I just have to tell our colleagues they’re contributing to the bell — as well as the orphans and widows of this city.’
That made her laugh out loud.
‘Have you forgiven us?’ He was impetuous, looking down into her eyes.
Embarrassed, Anne flicked her glance from his. ‘Yes, I’ve forgiven you. Them?’ she shrugged ‘I’m trying. I know I have to. I will, if they will.’ There was the flicker of a tight smile between them. Caxton sighed.
‘They’re not bad men, but change is difficult for them. They’re bewildered by you.’ As he was also, yet he still felt shame for the actions of his colleagues and he wanted her to know that. ‘The first steps have been taken towards reconciliation, but there is still danger. For us all.’
Then Anne saw him. The man with the crossbow. Standing in an upstairs window of one of the inns which lined the Markt Square, she watched him in one frozen moment aim and then release his quarrel.
She saw the feathered bolt as it came at her; saw the small, dark blur against the light; watched him turn back into the darkness of the room behind, so sure he’d aimed true.
Anne threw herself back to the edge of the litter, but the jolt was like a fist, and then fire, as the steel head of the quarrel sliced into her flesh, nicking bone in its passage into her side.
It was the padding in her sleeves that saved her, plus the missal she’d been holding. The ivory covers of her prayer book were bound with gold wire and set with cabochon jewels; the quarrel was deflected by a small ruby. It gouged into her side beneath her arm, but it did not find her heart, though blood sprang from between her ribs like a fountain.
They were screaming, but Anne heard little. The world was slipping, slipping away into darkness, sliding into a dream. The soft breeze was on her face then — nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
It hurt badly, jagged and deep, and she screamed herself into the light. Like a child being born.
‘Hush, hush. Over now. Sleep little one ...’ They were the words you said to a child, of course, and perhaps that fitted. She was, after all, very young. Perhaps they would feed her the nice warm milk and she would sleep again. She opened her eyes although she didn’t want to. Pain was bad, and stupid. No mind behind pain, it just was.
There they all were, clustered around this vast, black bed. It wasn’t her bed, but she knew the people there. Maud Caxton, for one didn’t like her.
Maud? Anne sat up quickly when William’s wife’s face sharpened focus, but the pain surged up her side again, filling her mouth with blood and hot bile. Vomit burned her throat, but pride closed her teeth. There was no way that Maud would see her retch.
‘Dame Caxton. And Master Caxton,’ yes, he was there too. ‘My thanks for your help.’ The words came out of her own mouth, from between her own teeth, she was certain of that, but where they came from was impossible to say. With great relief she saw that Deborah was beside her. Her foster-mother looked very worried, which was foolish for Anne could see the crossbow bolt now, lying in a bowl filled with blood. Probably her own blood. Still, better the thing was out of her. She could sleep now.
‘Yes, we should let her sleep, that will be best. We shall know very soon if the wound is to suppurate. Then she can be bled to remove the evil humours.’ William Caxton sounded quite calm — he surprised himself.
‘No. There will be no more bleeding. Strength is what she needs, healing!’
Anne did not open her eyes, but she smiled. She knew that tone — Deborah rarely raised her voice, but this was one of those rare times.
There was an astonished intake of breath. That would be Maud, thought Anne contentedly, as her husband hurried to intervene.
‘Maud, we have guests. Guests who are very worried about this dreadful event.’
‘No, they’re not.’ Anne was very matter of fact, but for the people in that room, the private bedchamber of Maud and William Caxton, it was as eerie as if a corpse had spoken.
‘And we should return to them, allowing our Lady Anne to sleep, and recover.’
Anne heard the agitated rustle as Maud snatched up her skirts and left the room with William, barely closing the door before berating him in an angry hiss as their footsteps receded. Only then did Anne open her eyes, and find Deborah. Very gently her foster-mother stroked one of the girl’s hands, trying very hard not to cry.
‘There now — not so bad. It’s happened, the thing we feared ...’
Anne was surprised at the pain of talking, but if she did not breathe very deeply, perhaps it would be easier.
‘We know it’s real now, the threat. Wa
sn’t just kidnap, before. Stop crying, Deborah. Makes me sad.’
Deborah smiled a watery smile, but dense, black despair was very close. The iron head of the quarrel was rusty and had burrowed deep; the doctor who’d been summoned had poked Anne’s side with filthy fingers, searching for it, and Deborah would have to work fast to undo the infection that would surely follow this ‘treatment’. She might be too late if Jenna did not arrive with her salves very soon.
Downstairs, amongst his fellows, William Caxton was deeply, deeply ashamed. Upstairs in his bedchamber, Anne lay dying — he was convinced of that — and here in his fine hall there was a group of men, his colleagues, God help him, who could not meet his eyes.
They were all superstitious. The admonition and blessing at the chapel of the minstrels had been made in their name. They were all indirectly responsible for the attack on Anne — they had kept vital knowledge from her — and now, perhaps, God would punish them where it would tell the most: their businesses.
‘We must make amends. If she dies, we deserve to be hanged and damned. All of us.’ William was blunt, but none of them spoke in response. He was right and they didn’t know what to say.
Maud Caxton, however, was furious. Once she had seen that her unwilling guests had been given refreshment, her husband had hurried her out of the hall, their hall, insisting she must stay in the anteroom, behind closed doors, until he called her again.
She knew what was happening. He was about to do something really foolish, out of guilt. Something which would undoubtedly compromise them and their house just because that wretched Anne de Bohun had nearly got herself killed.
She didn’t like Anne — it was outrageous that she had no sense at all of what was appropriate. All she did was upset the men and enrage the women, and justly so. There was a story here, undoubtedly. People didn’t get shot at in broad daylight travelling home from church unless they had done something to merit it.
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