The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  ‘Are you Master Cohen?’

  ‘Yes, mistress, I am he. But we have not met. Will you tell me your name?’

  ‘I am a customer, perhaps that will suffice?’

  The old man smiled, a surprisingly sweet sight. ‘Well then, Mistress Customer, let us go into my house, and let me be what service I can to you.’

  Anne dared, for a moment, to hope. Soon she would leave this place and this man was the means, the means to that end.

  ‘Sister, this is very serious for you and for the abbey. A matter of treason. A burning matter.’

  Sister Agatha, terrified of the grim soldier in front of her, looked pleadingly at the abbot and her own immediate supervisor, the Sister-superior, mistress of the women-strangers’ dorter. What should she say?

  ‘The novice we seek. You spoke to her? Helped her?’

  An imperceptible nod from the abbot gave Agatha courage to speak.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Henry Hardwell was angry; he had no time to waste on this nonsense. With good fortune, and an annoyingly large expenditure of pennies and even thruppences, he’d tracked the two errant ‘nuns’ to the inn at the Whitby waterfront, the ‘Two Tunns’, only to be told they’d gone as pilgrims to this abbey, but now, again, the girl had fled ahead of him!

  This was sweaty work — and much at stake. His father’s lusts were a minor consideration now that the duke expected him to deal with the matter of the supposed spy promptly and efficiently, on behalf of the king his brother. And he would do that, by God, so he would. It was a priceless opportunity to gain influence and advancement at court.

  And perhaps, when he found the girl, he could just tear her tongue out? That way, he’d have a ‘spy’ to exhibit to the duke, but she’d not be able to speak. Excellent! An excellent solution. He thrust his face close to the mewling child who was the key to the mystery, hissing his question, ‘Where is she? Answer!’

  Poor Agatha was torn. Sir Henry was a grim man with a harsh, red face and he meant no good to Sister Anne, of that she was certain. Nervously, she bowed to avoid his gimlet eye.

  ‘Delay is dangerous, girl, very dangerous.’

  The abbot cleared his throat. He was a compassionate man and he did not enjoy the sight of this little poor scrap being bullied so mercilessly, but he was also a pragmatist and he had the welfare of the abbey to think of. To have harboured a spy, running from the king’s justice, was a serious matter; and this man, unpleasant as he was, had warrants from the Duke of Gloucester himself.

  ‘Sister Agatha, you must speak. If you have knowledge of where our sister might be, you must tell Sir Henry.’

  Poor Sister Agatha. She closed her eyes and quickly asked for guidance. None came. Tremulously, she opened them to find Sir Henry glaring directly into her eyes, so close she could smell his breath. It was a shock, she’d never been this close to a man, any man, before. The words babbled out of her mouth in a terrified stream and forever after, when she smelt garlic on another’s breath, unconscious terror would make her bowels run.

  ‘The Jew’s house in Silver Lane. She’s gone there to change money so that she can return and make a donation to the abbey.’

  ‘Moneylenders? Jews?!’ Henry Hardwell’s rage, never far from the surface, ignited. He hated them, hated them! They were a scourge on the face of the Earth, and it had nothing to do with religion. His father had mortgaged the manor, Henry’s patrimony, to Jews who’d kept the Hardwell’s in debt for years.

  It would give him pleasure indeed to go to the moneylender’s house, and find that girl. Great pleasure!

  ‘We know where she is, Edward. My man tells me the French spy is definitely in Whitby. He’ll have her back here in the next few days.’

  The duke delivered his news defiantly, very pleased. He’d just had the dispatch from Henry Hardwell, delivered by an interesting new innovation: a trained pigeon had flown from Whitby to York, the coded message attached to one leg in a tiny lead canister.

  Edward grunted as he watched his little son with fascination, totally absorbed. The boy was sitting on the floor doodling with a stick of charcoal on scraps of vellum.

  ‘Edward?’

  Reluctantly the king looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. And Hastings is close to York now: about a day’s march, I’m told.’ The duke rubbed his hands together with relish. Things were starting to come right. Happily, he picked up a freshly picked apple from a silver bowl — he relished the fruits of autumn — and began to peel it with a dagger from his belt, the oiled steel very black against the rosy skin.

  ‘It’s worked, it’s all worked. That’s very pleasing.’ The peel dropped in a long spiral from his knife now as he cut a sliver of the apple’s flesh and chewed it vigorously. ‘New season’s, brother. Delicious!’ Humming, he cut another piece and considered their situation. ‘The hunt’ had indeed put the fear of God into the lowland counties north of York and talk of the imminent arrival of Margaret of Anjou had died away. It was true, then, by the Grace of God, that the wild autumn weather had prevented her embarkation. They were safe for the nonce. Unreflectively, just to ward off bad luck, the duke crossed himself.

  Edward was amused. ‘Superstitious, brother — or devout? Either seems unlikely.’

  Richard grinned. ‘Come, brother, I’m more devout than you’ve ever been. And much less superstitious, if it comes to that.’

  Edward laughed out loud, but then scoffed.

  ‘Oh ho, then why do you wear the relic ring, Richard — and the wolf’s claw at your throat? Dusty old beliefs mean nothing to me, never have. Do you think they will protect you in battle — or from sorcery?’

  Abruptly the laughter died. Sorcery. The word had power when the king’s own wife was still called a witch in some quarters. And Edward had never told his brother about the interview he’d had with a certain bishop in Brugge, about Anne. And he never would.

  Briskly, the duke changed the subject to familiar concerns.

  ‘So, what do we do about Hasting’s levies, brother?’

  Edward tousled his son’s head. Little Edward hardly noticed, so absorbing was his task — he was trying to draw a tree.

  ‘Does this look like a tree to you, Richard?’

  Impatiently, the duke rolled his eyes. God’s bones! The boy was only a baby still; how could he possibly draw a tree, at his age. Mary save them all from the idiot fondness of parents!

  ‘It will be good to have the levies on hand, Edward. I think we’ll just garrison them here for a short time.’

  ‘A very short time, brother.’

  The king’s tone was a warning. The townsfolk of York, whilst they might welcome the presence of five thousand men as a protection in these uncertain times, would not appreciate having them garrisoned on the town for very long. Troops with nothing to do tended to get out of control very fast, and who knew what rapine and slaughter, not to mention looting, might result if men from the foreign south got too much ale into them?

  ‘Very well, a short time. Then I think we should march towards the borders, let them loose a bit, and send them home when the Lowlanders have learnt a lesson.’

  Edward nodded agreement, but his grin was wolfish. They both knew what ‘turn them loose’ meant. These desperate times called for blunt action. Fear and sword were potent weapons in the borders and if they didn’t apply them first, others might, to their own people here in York.

  ‘Therefore, let us eat, drink and be merry tonight, brother Richard, for I feel the tide is turning.’

  Brave words, but each man knew that whilst the Earl of Warwick lived, the conflict was not over. Could never be over. Edward kissed his son on the top of his head as the little boy turned to him, clamouring to be hauled up on the king’s knee.

  The father looked deep into the blue, blue eyes of his son. Was his mother lost to them both for good, lost in that other, undeclared war he’d been waging with his wife, the queen? Would they ever see Anne again, together?

  He shivered, sudden
ly cold. Something was nudging at the margins of his mind, something strange. He watched his brother pick up his black steel knife, watched him begin to peel another rosy apple ...

  And then he had it. A black knife, another black knife, months and months ago, that he’d placed so carefully close to the hand of a corpse. The corpse of the man who’d died the triple death in Loki’s cave — where he and Richard might have died themselves.

  A sacrifice for the good of the tribe — was that what the man had been? And might he, Edward, be another — for the good of his kingdom? Perhaps his life must be made forfeit in battle to come so that this little boy could reign after him — if he survived childhood.

  The king shook himself like a dog, startling the duke.

  ‘Brother?’

  The king grinned mirthlessly. ‘Fanciful notions, Richard. Your superstitious ways are catching!’

  Richard laughed as Edward gently cradled his drowsy son, carrying him towards the door of the chamber murmuring.

  ‘Time for a little sleep, my friend. Just a little sleep.’

  The baby stirred and his father soothed him, cuddled him. What morbid thoughts he was prey to because he was tired! Particularly this nonsense, all this rubbish, about sorcerers — and witchcraft!

  He had the great misfortune to be married to a woman he now mistrusted, and to be deeply in love with another whom he might never see again.

  But the game was not over yet, not remotely over, because he was the king!

  What seemed complicated, mysterious and frightening was easy enough to deal with if each problem was broken down into small enough pieces.

  That is what he would do.

  Win the war in the borders, find Anne, and get on with ruling his kingdom.

  But meanwhile his son needed his bed — and his nurse.

  The king kissed his sleeping baby. If only all life was this simple.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Master Cohen’s counting room was enough like her own in Brugge to make Anne melancholy.

  The Jew himself was puzzled, and not just by the sheen of tears in the eyes of the unknown Gentile girl now sitting on the other side of his work table. Something was badly awry and his instincts, the instincts which still functioned so well to protect his family and all their commercial interests, were well roused. There was a mystery here; he’d seen the jewels lying in the dirt, jewels this girl looked much too poor to own.

  ‘The jewels are mine, Master Cohen. I cannot prove it, but I swear that it is so.’

  Benjamin Cohen jumped in his seat; then he was fearful. His eyes hooded and hardened. Perhaps something here was unclean.

  Anne sighed and shook her head. ‘Oh, Master Cohen, I have come such a long way, such a long way. I have lost everyone and everything that I love and these,’ she had the gems in the palm of one hand now, holding them up to the meagre light from the one small window in his room, ‘these are all that are left to me. I am willing to trade one of them, whichever you shall tell me is worth the most, for it will give me the chance to start again, to find my son.’

  She could not help herself. Silent tears slid down her face and she was shaking so much, the jewels almost slipped from her hand.

  Reaching over, Benjamin Cohen closed Anne’s fingers over her palm. He was touched. Such depth of feeling, even from a Gentile, could not be ignored or explained away.

  ‘I shall weigh them, each of them, shortly, but I can already see they are very fine. I am glad you wish only to change one for coin. I do not think I could afford to buy both of them from you.’

  Anne, deeply relieved, took a shuddering breath and allowed herself to glance around the room they were in. From recently learned habit, she placed where the doors were, where the windows were, should she need to escape.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, Master Cohen. Believe me when I say that I am grateful for your kind treatment of me. My gratitude, one day, may be useful to you.’

  Again, there was a strange moment between them, yet he, man of affairs, man of the book, did not doubt her. And that was odd for she was just a girl in an old blue dress.

  ‘Refreshments, whilst we conduct our business together.’

  The Jew picked up a little silver bell that was placed on his Elmwood table, and rang it. It had a shiveringly clear sound, melodious, like water falling and, instantly, a door opened at the back of his room.

  A girl slipped through and stood there in the shadows.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Hephzibah, bring refreshment for our guest, if you please.’

  The girl nodded silently and as quietly closed the door behind her. Though the room was deeply shadowed, Anne had the impression of an ivory skin and a good face: warm brown eyes like her father, and a flow of very black hair falling loose down her back. A pretty girl, no more than fifteen at most.

  ‘Your daughter is very pretty, Master Cohen.’

  The Jew had risen and, bowing respectfully, held out his own hand for Anne’s gems. He smiled, pleased. ‘You are very kind. We are thinking, my wife and I, that it is time she should be married.’ Unconsciously he frowned as he said the words. He was preoccupied in the task of assessing each stone with a powerful crystal lens as he held it over a candle to check for flaws.

  Anne said nothing but she was slightly startled, the girl seemed so young. Master Cohen glanced up from his work and caught her expression. He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Yes, you are right. She is very young.’ Now it was Anne’s turn to laugh: he was reading her thoughts.

  ‘It seems we understand each other, mistress.’ The girl before him looked too young, just as his daughter did, to be married, yet she had mentioned a son. ‘Yet I must think of her welfare. Her future. We are the only people of the Torah in Whitby; a suitable husband for Hephzibah must be found elsewhere. But we shall miss her, when she goes. Very much.’ He sighed heavily and for a moment, great sadness formed deep lines in his face.

  ‘Perhaps in York you will find someone acceptable?’

  Master Cohen concentrated on weighing each one of the jewels, very carefully. It was a distraction from the pain, when he thought of York. ‘No. Not in York. There have been few of my people in York for many, many generations.’

  Anne, who knew almost nothing of the history of the north, felt great pain behind his words. Then it hit her like a physical blow. Anguish. Flames. She heard screams, loud, terrified screams. Women, children, even men.

  Horrified, she gasped and stood suddenly, desperate to run from the room, run from the terror. Master Cohen looked at her in astonishment. ‘Mistress? Mistress, are you well?’

  Anne thought she would vomit from horror. She could smell burning flesh as hot coals rained down. The roof was going, the roof of the cellar! She could feel the agony, smell the loosened bowels, hear the babies wailing for their mothers as they died.

  She collapsed onto the floor where she lay, sobbing uncontrollably ‘They died, they all died. Aaah, Dear God, how could they let it happen?’

  Blood filled her mind, clogged her heart. All she breathed was pain, all she saw was covered by anguish too deep for words.

  ‘Hephzibah, Hephzibah!! Call your mother, run!’

  The Whitby market was at its busiest as the baron and his escort picked their way through the crowd, being heartily cursed for trying to force their horses through such confined spaces.

  But Liam didn’t care. How was it that smells took you back so far? Fish. And sea-coal smoke. It was all so familiar, as if it were yesterday.

  ‘Liam, Liam Fellowes, is it really you?’ A woman of about his own age, early thirties, was peering up at him with an expression of such joy on her face that all the world stopped. Mary Gardiner. His own first love. Until she married Tom Fletcher.

  ‘Mary!’ He was lost in the sight of her face and unconsciously leant down from his horse to grab the outstretched hand she offered.

  ‘Liam!’ It was the baron and he was not pleased.

  ‘Yes, Baron?�
�� Reluctantly, Liam turned in his saddle to answer his master.

  ‘Information, that’s what we need. We have little time if this is not to be a fool’s errand.’

  Liam composed his face with one sad shake of the head to Mary; that shake said, not now, later. She nodded. She understood. She’d always understood him. She smiled at him saucily, curtsied to the baron and was about to go her ways when Liam called out, ‘Mary, wait!’ Before the baron could object, Liam put his case. ‘Mary’s married to an innkeeper, aren’t you, Mary? Tom Fletcher?’

  Reluctantly, Mary nodded. It was true, she was married to Tom. ‘Innkeepers know who’s about, know who comes and goes, we should ask Tom if he’s seen them.’

  The baron weighed the man’s words suspiciously. It was true, an innkeeper would be most likely to know about strangers in town. ‘Very well, where is this woman’s husband? I shall speak to him.’

  Mary looked up into Liam’s eyes and licked her lips quickly. He felt himself stiffen against the pommel. He’d have to watch how he got off Polly, at this rate!

  ‘The inn is this way, sir.’ It was said with a certain saucy lift — she’d seen the effect she had on Liam. So, she still had the power. She led the party of armed men towards her husband’s inn, the ‘White Boar’, whilst she walked beside his horse’s head.

  ‘Are you here for long, Liam?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not if we find what we’re looking for.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ The look she flashed him was open provocation. Unconsciously he clenched his thighs as he felt the heat mount his belly. Polly snorted in protest, she was already nervous amongst all these people, so she didn’t like being confused by such strange commands. Normally Liam’s thighs, when they clenched, were telling her to canter.

  ‘Liam, do you still like apples?’

  It was as if she touched Liam on his naked flesh. Like apples? He remembered that afternoon and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He’d watched Mary eat a new pippin, white teeth against red flesh. She’d let him lift her skirts and he’d slipped himself between her legs as if coming home whilst she went on eating that apple, went on enjoying it and him together. And now, eating a new-season’s apple always had a nostalgic, erotic charge.