The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Wulf yelled, ‘Give it to me!’

  Anne hurled the diamond to the far side of the deck, and in that same moment she jumped after the coracle, bag clutched in one hand, knife in the other, invoking all the Gods that one panicked thought allowed her.

  Even though it was early autumn after a warm summer, the water was very cold this far out to sea, and shock nearly made Anne lose hold of the bag when she hit the surface. She dropped the knife as she struggled, trying to keep herself afloat, trying desperately to locate the coracle, but Gaspar’s clothes filled with water and their weight was dragging her down. Shed them now or drown.

  She did it. Unclasping the sea cloak — which spread out like a giant lily pad — somehow she kicked her way out of the britches; now she was naked but for the captain’s jerkin. Now there was commotion on the ship behind her as she struggled in the water. Men shouted, waving torches, and Gaspar yelled, ‘Port, port-side! She’s over there, over there!’

  A sudden whine: an arrow ploughed the water, perilously near. Her face, they could see her white face!

  The sea-cloak was her salvation. She dragged the heavy leading edge over her head and, holding it in place with her teeth as the cloak fanned out behind her, she struck out with her free arm towards the bowl of the coracle, just glimpsed in the dark, resting lightly on the sea. So close, so agonisingly close.

  Weeeesh. Another arrow. Then another. Desperately, Anne kicked and thrashed, trying for rhythm: trying to picture how her childhood friends, the village boys, had swum in the millpond in summer. She remembered they’d made their arms and legs work together, why couldn’t she?

  Wheesh-shaaaah. That was further away! They couldn’t see her in the dark, and suddenly Anne was moving her free arm and legs rhythmically, no longer floudering — much better, learning fast. That or die — no other choice.

  The cries from the boat were fainter as Anne realised she was being carried by something: a sea current was moving her on quite strongly, carrying her away from the boat but no sooner had she formed the thought than she found herself within arm’s length of the coracle. One last desperate flounder and she caught hold of it; now she just had to get in without swamping the strange little craft.

  Her body was close to the end of its resources, but the feel of the rough hide covering the wickerwork frame of the dish-like boat, if boat it could be called, summoned her last shreds of resilience. Somehow Anne managed to heave the achingly heavy sea cloak over the side — she knew she would need some sort of covering in the open sea — followed by the skin bag which had been her salvation. Then with both arms free, she tried to roll herself over the lip of the coracle.

  But the thing was very light and as she tipped it down towards her, to clamber aboard, the sea rushed in, threatening to drown both her and the little craft.

  Then she knew despair, nearly gave up. She was cold and weak; it would be easy, so easy, to drift away, to sleep.

  ‘Anne,’ the voice was a breath, ‘Anne ... you will not die here.’

  Dreams and visions are a comfort as death beckons; Deborah had told her that — often she’d been the last to attend a dying villager, at home in the forest of Anne’s childhood. She’d told Anne many of the strange things people saw and heard as the body sank towards its last, long home. Was this a sweet phantom voice, one which would ease her own passing into the realm she had glimpsed before?

  ‘Anne!’ the voice had changed. It was urgent, commanding, harsh. The Sword Mother’s voice. Obediently the girl opened her eyes to find the coracle had righted itself and she was still holding on with one hand. This time when she tried to roll over the side as slowly and carefully as she could, the little craft rolled with her on the swell and then Anne was lying in its centre, beside the skin bag and the sodden sea cloak. There was water in the bottom of the boat as well — that had been the extra weight which kept the coracle from tipping this time.

  Thus for a time, as the current carried the little craft along, Anne lay in the lathed bottom of the coracle and watched the stars pass by overhead. She had no means of directing her boat: no oars, no paddles, and no strength left in her arms. She wasn’t uncomfortable any more — though she knew she was wet — for the water she was lying in became as warm as her body.

  After a time, as the moon dipped below the western horizon, she slept ...

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The embarkation of the English court was slow, but to the watching crowd in Sluis, packed in behind the red silk ropes which cordoned off the wharf, it was as good as an Easter pageant. Slow was good therefore, slow was satisfying: it gave you more time to look at the clothes properly — and compare the English court women against the Burgundian ladies, when they finally deigned to arrive.

  First, after the early dawn, came the animals, helped on board with much swearing and yawning from the ostlers — the sumpter mules of the prelates, the palfreys of the ladies and the very expensive destriers of the great English nobles; then an endless, sweating mass of liveried men-servants loaded boxes, chests, rolls of carpet, hangings, trappings, pictures, even furniture, aboard the King of England’s fleet.

  It was a hot day — one of the last of this autumn, said sage heads — and as the morning wore away, the crowd’s patience diminished. The women were especially restless — they’d come to see the wedding clothes on the backs of the court parties, most particularly their new duchess and the fabled Queen of England. Were were they all? They’d miss the tide soon ...

  In Brugge, Edward, haunted, was pacing — up and down, up and down — waiting, desperately hoping, to hear more from Father Giorgio before the iron machine of protocol forced him to leave the city, to return to England.

  Even now, more than three days since Anne’s disappearance, an endless, nauseating cycle of certainty, uncertainty, certainty, uncertainty distorted every thought, every action: each moment, each emotion raised the stakes and brought terrifying spectres in its wake. Trust was gone, belief was gone, hope was fading — and suspicion filled the yawning void.

  Could they be true — how could they be true? — the rumours that Father Giorgio had brought him? Elisabeth, his queen, behind the attempt on Anne’s life? Edward squeezed his eyes closed, tried to focus on the pain in his head as a means of clarity, but images of the recent heated interview he’d conducted with William Caxton, Governor of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers in Brugge, kept intruding.

  Giorgio had led Edward to William — tipped off by Maxim, who’d heard more than he should have of conversations between Anne and the merchant. Poor, grieving Caxton — he was distraught about Anne also — had shown Edward the note, the supposed proof of his wife’s involvement in the attack on Anne; but ciphers, even if this one were real, which he doubted, had to doubt, could be made to say anything. Anything!

  Elisabeth was his queen, anointed by God, and she was his wife. He could accept a wife’s jealousy of a husband’s affair, but to plot his lover’s murder? And, for him to believe it on the basis of such flimsy ‘evidence’ as he’d been shown? No! Not possible.

  And, even supposing Caxton was right, where was the link from the attempted assassination to Anne’s disappearance?

  Nothing made sense!

  And, of course, when he’d questioned his wife — as he’d had to — he’d been met with outraged, furious denial and tears — gales, storms of tears. He’d felt like a fool, and worse, because he could prove nothing.

  He blamed himself, of course. In the delirium of his affair with Anne the need to find her enemies had taken a distant second place to living in the moment. He had her, she had him; she was safe with him in Brugge — and they’d find the culprit later. He was the king; if it was his wish, it would be done!

  Too late, too late now.

  Thus, exhausted, Edward paced up and down, up and down, trying to think his way through the tangle. By order, he was alone in Duke Charles’ working-closet at the Prinsenhof as he waited for Giorgio, yet he heard the scuffles, the whispers, outside
the door. They were all there: his valet, his body servants, courtiers — even his wife’s servants — all waiting for his order that the court should join the barges and journey down the Zwijn to the ships waiting at Sluis.

  Distantly he heard noon ring out from the Markt belfry. Time was his enemy and the bells were pleased to tell him so. The tide, remember the tide, that’s what the bells said.

  He heard the door behind him swing open and barked.

  ‘Leave me! How many times must I ...’

  Charles of Burgundy cleared his throat.

  ‘Come, brother-in-law, the fleet will not sail today if you delay further.’

  Edward shrugged, desperation and exhaustion burning his eyes. He’d not slept since Anne’s disappearance.

  ‘Another day, just one more day, Charles. We may hear more? I’m waiting for news even now.’

  The duke was troubled — he had some sympathy for the king’s tortured state over Anne de Bohun because he liked and admired her too. Perhaps a light touch would help.

  ‘But, brother, there is not food enough to feed you all — no, not even for one more day!’ Charles laughed, of course, intending the words should be ironic, but there was truth in them. The cost of entertaining the English court for the ten days of the wedding had been enormous, added to by the unexpected extra days they’d since spent in Brugge. All because Anne de Bohun had disappeared.

  ‘Come, sire, your people are impatient to be away home.’ Charles spoke plainly, bracingly. It was not for a duke to tell a king his duty, but he was older than Edward and a soldier. And if the English delayed any longer, it would be most unfortunate for he, Charles, had many problems to address, not least the wily French king once more circling Burgundy’s territory. He could not afford the distraction of pleasure any longer. Unconsciously he sighed. Soon he would have to leave his young bride to go on campaign; yes, he understood how hard it was to leave a woman behind.

  ‘Edward? Shall I give them the order?’ He was sad to see his friend in such a tortured state. And they were friends still, just, though both knew, without acknowledgment on either side, that their relationship had been much compromised by the mischief manufactured by Elisabeth Wydeville — and the disappearance of this girl.

  Edward was silent, staring out of the window as if he’d heard nothing. Charles grimaced — and then brightened as the idea came to him. When the English court had left he would compose a most careful and confidential letter to Edward setting out clearly, once and for all, assurances as to the health of the Zwijn and the strength of the Burgundian economy. And he would also redouble his already considerable efforts to find Anne. ‘Come brother, leave us to find Lady de Bohun — we seek her diligently and so shall continue.’

  Edward swung round to stare at this brother-in-law. Strange thoughts surfaced from some dark place. Was this man still an ally? Should he trust him still? Perhaps he was in league with Anne’s abductors — even the queen, if indeed she were responsible, for his own good reasons?

  Charles returned the king’s suspicious gaze for a moment saying, softly, ‘You must trust me in this. I am your friend, Edward, and Lady Anne’s friend. I always will be.’ Then he strode over to the door, where he turned, saying formally, ‘What is Your Majesty’s pleasure?’

  Fingering the rope of pearls and emeralds slung around his shoulders — Anne’s prodigal gift flung to him so few days ago — Edward sighed, deeply, consciously willing away the black demons which haunted him. He nodded. ‘Very well, tell them we embark.’

  Relieved, Duke Charles opened the door and called out to the waiting courtiers, ‘Load the barges, it is the king’s pleasure to depart!’ Turning back to Edward, the duke made a deep bow.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  Edward stood, as wearily as an old man. One by one, he touched the pearls, touched the emeralds, as if they were so many rosary beads. The duke was right — more days would make no difference. It was not a matter of time, it was a matter of fate.

  Very well, he would journey back to his kingdom and pick up the pieces of his life in London, with Elisabeth. And trust to providence, and to Charles, and to Father Giorgio, that he would hear news of Anne. That they would find her. That she would find him.

  For if she did not, how could he live?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  There was much interest and speculation in the district behind the mouth of the Humber when news of the near-naked girl cast up on the strand near Spurn Point spread forlorn through the town and surrounding countryside.

  Cod fishermen returning home from the autumn fisheries sighted the body lying near the rip at the mouth of the river, yet the girl was still alive, though barely, when she was gathered up and taken to the Nunnery of Our Lady of the Sands, a small convent set back from the shores of the estuarine mouth of the river.

  The nunnery was a sadly shabby little place for it was many years since they’d had even one well-dowered novice and the Mother Superior, Elinor, was neither a confident nor efficient manager of her seventeen unruly sisters in Christ, so its fortunes continued to decline. However, the day the unconscious girl arrived in the back of Beck’s wagon was to begin change at Our Lady of the Sands — change that Elinor would, in the end, welcome.

  The feathered cacophony of geese warned of visitors before the cart was even sighted, and though Mother Elinor was on her knees praying for the continued good health of the convent’s only patron, the irascible Baron Stephen Hardwell, she was curious to see what had set the sisters running past the chapel, calling out.

  Therefore, Mother Elinor rose to her feet. With strict attention she crossed herself, genuflecting to the altar table, and then calmly stepped out from the choir, walked past the bench for the few lay sisters, and out of the chapel door to see what the noise portended.

  The sisters, all of them, both lay and choir, were clustered at the back of Beck’s wagon blocking her view.

  ‘Sisters!’ Elinor was cross and they all fell quiet for once, which pleased her.

  ‘What is so important you must disturb my prayers?’

  Better and better, she could hear the authority in her voice today.

  ‘But, Reverend Mother, look, she’s dead!’ It was an obvious pronouncement, but Sister Bertha enjoyed the drama of voicing everyone’s opinion; then the girl’s chest rose and fell, microscopically. She was alive, after all.

  Elinor, never decisive, was nonplussed for a moment then inspiration struck.

  ‘It is our duty to be charitable. Warmth, I think, then food.’

  ‘What are you all standing there for! Listen to our Mother — get the girl into the dorter. She can have your bed, Bertha, since you’ll be on your knees thanking God tonight for this miracle.’ It was Sister Aelwin who spoke, suddenly obsequious. Elinor kept the surprise off her face — Sister Aelwin, the Prioress, was her nemesis at the convent: she thought she deserved Elinor’s position. Nodding graciously, Elinor crossed herself with decision.

  ‘Let it be done in Christ’s name, sisters. I shall finish my prayers, Sister Aelwin, therefore see I am not further disturbed. And meanwhile send the Infirmaress to attend our unexpected guest.’

  She made a stately turn upon the worn-down heels of her outside clogs and left an abashed, but busy, silence behind her as her sisters in Christ hurried to obey.

  The little cracked bell, all the sisters could afford, was tolling Compline as Anne opened her eyes. She was confused. Around her there was pale, windy darkness and, somewhere, far away, an unmusical bell was calling her, insistently, to prayer.

  Tears came: a bell had rung the night her son was born. Her son. She had lost her son, and Deborah.

  And Edward.

  ‘Hush. There, there. Save your strength, child.’ A cool hand wiped away the tears and a surprisingly strong arm helped her to half sit.

  Now she could see it, a wavering flame from a cheap tallow candle. Anne hated the smell of burning animal fat, hated the greasy black smoke, but now she was grateful for the punge
nt reek. She was on land, that’s what the stench meant, even though everything around her rocked and swam.

  Slowly the milky darkness receded, translating into a narrow room filled with shadows and the sound of the sea. A rising wind rattled the shutters, closed for the night, but if she forced her eyes to remain open, though the lids were so heavy, she saw rough, lime-washed walls and a line of primitive bedsteads. She was lying between coarse sheets and she felt light as air, less than air. Like a cloud must feel, like mist.

  Anne heard the soft rustle as someone else sat beside her and she felt another warm hand on her forehead.

  ‘Can you hear me, Sister?’

  For a moment, the words meant nothing. She was so used to speaking French or Flemish that the English made no sense. But they had an accent, a familiar one. How could that be?

  ‘Yes, I hear you.’ The words were a breath and when Anne struggled to see the woman who was speaking to her, the world blurred again. There were shapes; perhaps the pale oval leaning down over her was a face — it was hard to tell, hard to tell.

  ‘Thanks be to Mary! Here, help me, Sister Joan; we must get some food into her or I think she will truly die.’

  ‘That would be a sorrowful shame, Sister, after all that this poor girl has endured.’

  The words floated above her head as Anne felt herself lifted higher into a sitting position. She winced as she smelt foul breath from rotting teeth.

  ‘There! Look, she’s back with us again. You hold her up, I’ll try getting the broth into her.’

  Focus was abruptly sharpened. The wavering shapes were two smiling women both dressed in grey, hand-loomed habits. Anne dearly wished that her feeder, Sister Bertha, did not breathe quite so earnestly or so often — the smell from her teeth was truly shocking.

  The mutton broth, however, was delicious — Anne was sick, thus could legitimately be given animal flesh — and the glistening little lake of pearly, silver fat floating on the top was the most beautiful sight Anne had ever seen. She was ravenous, ravenous! Very soon she had taken the bowl to herself, spooning the liquid into her mouth as quickly as she could.