The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  ‘Oh, Sword Mother, Sword Mother. Why give me the visions if I see so little of my own fate?’

  She whispered the words, despairing. And Jenna, despairing also, heard them as she lay, eyes open to the night in the breathless annex to the solar.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dawn came reluctantly to Brugge as suddenly cold and violent air flowed into the city on a north wind.

  The trees in the heber shivered as the light straggled up. It was only August — the world couldn’t be turning from high summer to winter overnight, could it?

  Deborah woke suddenly as the wind banged a shutter back against the walls of the house. She was anxious, breathing as if she’d been running, but from what? Darkness. It had had a form. And eyes.

  Shuddering, the old woman groped under the straw-filled mattress of her box bed to find the little drawstring bag she kept there. It was still dark inside the annex to the solar and Jenna and the boy were fast asleep, but she knew what she wanted by feeling for it. When she was frightened she needed the touch of her sacred things: carved rune stones given to her by her own mother during long apprenticeship into ancient knowledge. Stones that were frowned on in this world ruled by Christ. But still, they were things which had power; power to protect, power to speak when the people she lived amongst would do neither of these things for themselves.

  Deborah had been worried for days now, dread her constant companion. Edward was the cause, and Elisabeth. And Anne. Tomorrow the English Court would embark for home and that should have been a cause for rejoicing.

  If only this house could pass unscathed through this last day, all might yet be well, but over this last week, every night, covertly, she’d read the runestones and they’d said the same thing.

  Seven times over seven days and nights, she’d thrown the stones and seven times Nauthiz, Isa and Hagalaz had rolled apart from the others: the runes of cold which personified the three fateful sisters, weavers of all lives, great and small.

  So it was again, today.

  Nauthiz, ‘the teacher’, brought hard lessons that must be learned, sometimes at bitter cost, yet the rune also offered some small hope that strength of character might bring luck in beckoning adversity with the help of true friends.

  Hagalaz said storm, fierce winds, bad weather: an uncontrollable blast of cold winter fury. Chaos inextricably connected with past events — gale-brought havoc that no power, no person, could avoid, coupled with great impending danger.

  And Isa, the ice rune, the cold, iron rune against which there was no defence, for its power was the implacable strength of winter. Winter cannot be resisted, it must be endured; short days, long nights can bring patience — patience and hope, for the cold season can be tolerated knowing that light and warmth will return with the spring.

  The message was always the same: bad times coming, lessons to be learnt which could not be escaped from — and the need for courage.

  But Anne could not hear Deborah, would not hear her; too caught up in the game of chance, the dance of flesh, Anne refused sight and hearing if it intruded too far into her rapture with the king. All the world contrived to keep them apart yet he, and she, found ways to savour each other in dangerous, snatched moments — moments which fed the ravenous fire between them.

  Deborah shuddered.

  The great storm was close, so close. She could feel it, even smell ice on the north wind this morning. Yet, remove the king, remove the queen and perhaps the danger might be averted?

  Dawn light was seeping as the shadows of the night receded and the old woman sighed. Foolish to deny or avoid understanding when it was given. She, Deborah, had these tools for a purpose and it was her right and her duty to use them in the service of others. And Anne was the centre of her duty and her care.

  Very well, she was resolved. Today Anne would hear what had to be said because today she would be given no choice.

  Anne had taken a long time to wake.

  Finally sleeping last night, she’d descended very deep into a red world: a voluptuous place filled with sighs and heat where half-glimpsed naked bodies coupled together, endlessly twining and writhing. She’d been reluctant to leave it because Edward was there with her, and he had been the source of the sighs, the melting kisses. There was no night, no day, as sleeping and waking blended into one, long, heated half-life filled with the most exquisite, unslaked, unslakeable hunger. Hunger for him. And, in loving Edward, accepting him, the empty-eyed night demon had been banished from her dreams; passion had vanquished him. She was free!

  Now, as the light rose, Anne opened her eyes and stretched, delighting in her senses as sight came, smell came, touch came. Every surface in her bed was sensuous: silk, velvet, fur, ah, fur.

  How glad she was that, finally, she’d not withstood Edward’s wooing. How foolish her fear seemed now. He was the king, he could protect her from everything, anything; for though she’d asked for help from the Sword Mother, nothing had come to her, nothing. Better then to turn to mortal power — the power this man had over her, and around her; binding her, protecting ...

  And, when she’d faced it, how wonderful her capitulation to him had become. Each stolen night she drowned in surrender. She was exhausted, but still not sated with him, nor he with her. Let others sleep, the darkness was a gift — and they’d made such good use of it.

  And, if she closed her eyes, she could see him as she’d seen him not even three hours before. Naked, lying with her and inside her on a great cape lined with black fur. He’d thrown it down so that she’d not feel the stone floor on her bare skin and be chilled.

  Ah, but he’d chilled her: like ice, like fire, as, slowly and carefully, he’d undressed her, kissed her, running his hands so lightly over her skin that she had shivered as if freezing. Shaking so deeply that she could only centre by sliding him hot and deep and hard into her body, by kissing him so that warmth flowed from mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue as he had rocked her, rocked her and she straddled him and the itch between them both became deeper and hotter and hotter and ...

  ‘Good morning, mistress.’

  Anne was annoyed; Deborah’s voice had cut through the reverie and forced her into the present.

  ‘I was not fully awake, Deborah.’

  ‘Will you wash, mistress?’ Her foster-mother’s voice was brisk.

  Anne knew that tone — it reached back into childhood when the winter dawn came late and she didn’t want to get up in the dark. Duty. Obligation. Right now.

  Anne closed her eyes defiantly. ‘Yes. I will wash. But when I call you.’ She knew she sounded sulky, but all the rest of her life revolved around work and duty to others. Could she not just enjoy, if only for this one last time, lying in her bed with the luxurious sense of other possibilities in life? Being with the man you loved, for one? Dreaming of a future with him?

  ‘That is inconsiderate, Anne. Jenna has laboured up the stairs to bring you this hot water and she has much to do.’

  That ‘Anne’ was significant. Deborah was always entirely scrupulous to avoid personal address between them, especially in front of other members of the household.

  Anne sighed and, very reluctantly, opened her eyes. It took a moment to register she and Deborah were actually alone, though two large brass cans of hot water were gently steaming on the blue tiles in front of her fireplace.

  ‘Where is the baby? And Jenna?’

  ‘They’re both in the kitchen, where I sent them.’ It was an unspoken accusation — Anne was failing in her duty to her son, too caught up by passion to notice. Deborah’s face was implacable as she waited for Anne to get out of the bed.

  Anne said nothing. She would not acknowledge she’d lost the contest of wills, though she shivered as she slipped naked out of the warm bed.

  Silently Deborah held out the robe and Anne, just as silently, wrapped it around her as Deborah poured hot water into a washing bowl for her.

  ‘We will need to inspect the winter clothes for moth damage, I suspect, and ma
ke them ready for wearing. We’re in for an early autumn.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Mathew would want us to check and see who needs last winter’s livery replacing. There will be idle seamstresses in Brugge now and their rates’ll be lower too since the wedding is nearly done ...’

  Nearly done. The words echoed. Neither said anything for a moment as Anne wiped the soft curds of soap from her body with a linen cloth.

  Taking the cloth, wringing it out, Deborah touched Anne on the cheek, looking deep into her eyes. ‘It has to be faced, Anne.’ The girl said nothing, she couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, so her foster-mother hurried on.

  ‘You have to let him go. You must. I’ve asked for guidance, but the messages do not change, try as I do to make them. There is very great danger. You must listen to me.’

  ‘Am I cursed, Deborah?’

  Her foster-mother was suddenly angry. ‘Cursed? How can you be so foolish, or so selfish? You, who have so much given to you?’

  Anger. Guilt. Shame. Defiance. They ran together like acid in Anne’s gut. ‘Ah, that is not fair. The queen tried to kill me.’

  ‘And you have stolen her husband — and deserted your child for an adulterous affair. Night after night he’s cried himself to sleep without you.’

  It was like a slap with a cold, hard hand. And it was true; it was all true. Anne had sunk herself into sensuality to avoid reality — for reality carried the choice she had to make and would do anything to avoid. The blind and heedless passion she felt for Edward had been more powerful than love of her son, and her responsibility to his future.

  The swaddling cloak of denial was ripped away and suddenly, so clearly, she saw that she’d surrendered her hard-won independence to the king like any other lovestruck witless ninny. And, deep in lust, she’d compromised everything she believed in, everything she’d so painfully built. Her behaviour proved the English merchants right. She was a foolish woman, totally unfitted to carry authority, a mere chattel ruled by her basest instincts. A plaything.

  The shame was overwhelming as the rosy dream of the last days snuffed out.

  Deborah took the girl’s hand and led her to the window seat. Silently they both sat, so close together that whispers seemed natural.

  ‘Have you told the Duchess of Burgundy about the king? Does she know?’

  Dazed and humiliated, Anne shook her head as she thought about the conversations of the last few days — Margaret had invited her to the Prinsenhof to see the betrothal gift of peacock silk made into a magnificent dress, and, as they got on so well, other pleasant meetings had followed. It was natural, Anne told herself, they were both English; both spoke the same language.

  ‘No, I haven’t told her. But she suspects, of course she suspects.’

  Anne closed her eyes. Was it only yesterday that she and Duchess Margaret had been laughing as the final fitting for the peacock-blue dress was carried out, and Edward had found them together. And stayed, just the three of them, alone in a rare, warm moment of peace in the crowded palace.

  ‘Anne, heart-stakes are only part of this. Betrayal is all around you. The queen is playing politics on a very deep level. This is not just about love, it’s about survival for you, and the boy.’

  ‘What do you know?’ Dread and certainty crept into Anne’s heart on a grey tide.

  ‘Edward and Elisabeth have been fighting and not just about you. It’s said Duke George is vying for the throne again with Warwick’s help, and, for her part, the queen is trying to implicate Duke Richard also in the plot. It’s why she came to Brugge; Maxim was drinking with the king’s valet two nights ago and he said she’s trying to isolate Edward from his own brothers, make him more dependent on her own family.’

  Anne shook her head violently, unwilling to hear.

  ‘But Duke Richard’s always supported his brother, and he hates the queen.’ Anne had only seen the Duke of Gloucester from time to time when she was a servant at Westminster. Normally he stayed in the north at York, the stronghold of the king’s northern affinity, though he’d also lived, when younger, at Middleham Castle, the Duke of Warwick’s favourite dwelling. She’d liked him for his quiet straightforwardness, the sense one received of his pride in his elder brother, and his loyalty.

  Impatiently Deborah shook her head. ‘Richard and Edward spend a lot of time in different places and distance breeds suspicion very easily. The queen’s also trying to drive a wedge between Edward, the duke and Duchess Margaret too. Estrangement between Burgundy and England could be very profitable if you knew about it in advance — if you had links with Italian bankers, for instance.’

  Anselm Adorno! Recently he’d tipped Anne off about a meeting he and his father had been summoned to at the Prinsenhof: just Elisabeth, and the two Italian merchants, in secret.

  The queen had hinted that opportunities might open up in Britain; valuable monopolies could go to the right people, with the right connections, in return for financial support of the king in the current fluid situation in England. Monopolies which, if successfully farmed and managed, could make their owners wildly rich.

  There was one requirement for potential partners, however, if they wished to be considered for such a valuable prize: relocation of their chief place of business to England, to London, out of Brugge.

  Anselm had told her of other, similar meetings held with other trading houses in Brugge, the principals of each having been sworn to silence as he and his father had been. If it was true, it was a remarkably brazen thing to do under the roof of her host.

  Mathew Cuttifer, and his ward Anne, had not been consulted, of course.

  Anne’s face darkened. ‘Duke Charles and the king; surely they know what’s happening?’

  Deborah was grim. ‘Things are changing in Brugge. We both know that this marriage is about trade being the cement in a valuable strategic alliance. Our new duchess is a symbol of the faith the king places in Burgundy’s power as his chief ally against France. But the duke’s power and wealth is based on trade, is it not? What if the rumours about the Zwijn are true? The silt in the river gets worse each year, you’ve said so yourself.’

  Distractedly Anne nodded. The silt in the river always caused concern to the merchants in Brugge, though there were wildly varying reports of its level year to year. It was ironic that the city itself was at least part of the problem. All the extra building and digging of canals had dammed up and effectively lessened the river’s natural flow; that and the slow creation of a delta at the Zwijn’s mouth to the sea.

  It was a frightening prospect, the permanent silting of the river.

  An intermittently navigable river meant no reliable trade into the city: no trading wealth, no political power. Brugge would slowly die if trade dried up. Simple.

  ‘I know it’s only servants’ gossip, but Edward’s valet was adamant. The queen has told Edward that Duke Charles is hiding the truth about the Zwijn. She’s trying to convince him he’s been tricked into throwing his sister away into an alliance with a potentially waning power. And then, if she hears you are planning to go back to England with the king ...’

  Both women were silent. Servants’ gossip? Anne shivered. Servants’ gossip could be very powerful — true or not.

  ‘He leaves tomorrow. There’s no time — for anything.’ She sounded so forlorn, so young.

  Silently Deborah put her arms around Anne. After a moment, the girl sighed deeply. ‘I need to think. Can you ask Jenna to bring me some more water? I’m sorry to ask, truly, but I can’t abide washing in cold water when I’m chilled.’

  Anne was standing now, looking down on the busy canal beneath her windows. The sun had broken through the low clouds and was throwing diamonds into the water. Even so early the town was alive, busy, shouting, prosperous, determined to enjoy each moment of this last day of celebration.

  The Zwijn in terminal decline? Surely that was nonsense? Anne turned away from her casements. What she needed were facts. It would be hard, but she needed to find a way to
see the duke. If anyone knew the truth about the silting of the river, it would be Duke Charles — and she must ask him, she must know.

  But today was also the day she’d promised to give Edward an answer. She’d so wanted to return to England with the king, to a home of her own, to a future, of a kind, with the man she loved, but that would only happen if she agreed to become his acknowledged mistress. And, she saw it clearly now, that meant placing her fate into his hands at a time when the kingdom was increasingly unstable.

  And, once back in England, the truth about her own and her son’s birth would be harder and harder to hide. What chance, too, would she and little Edward have with Elisabeth Wydeville their implacable enemy? How could she knowingly expose her son to such a life — and live with herself? All the money she’d made, all the battles she’d fought for recognition on her own terms — these were nothing.

  Little Edward, tiny defenceless Edward, needed her to be strong, needed her to turn her back once more on the only man she’d ever loved. She would say goodbye to the king.

  He would return to England without her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘These are nothing but malicious rumours. The river is deeper and better dredged now than it was in my father’s time. Some of the duchess’s dowry will see it stays that way.’

  Duke Charles was angry and bewildered by Anne’s question. She was talking to him for a few snatched moments in his tiny working office at the Prinsenhof just before the mass that was to be celebrated on this, the last day, of his wedding celebration.

  Bribery had got Anne there — that and calling in a long-owed favour from the duchess’s newly appointed chief dresser, a former servant of the Cuttifer’s whom she’d recommended to the duke as a trustworthy body-servant for his new wife.