‘Lady de Bohun, would you have a moment to spare later in the day?’ She turned towards the familiar voice which had breathed quietly in her ear.
‘Master Caxton, you are always welcome. Perhaps you would break your fast with us this morning?’ She smiled brightly, confidently, up into the eyes of the man who had addressed her.
He was of some importance in this city of Brugge, William Caxton. An Englishman in his mid-forties, he’d lived here and in other Lowland countries for many years, instrumental in building trade between Flanders, Burgundy and England. He was Governor of the Guild of English Merchant Adventurers in Brugge and it’d been he who’d led the English Merchants en masse to Ghent and Antwerp when the previous Duke of Burgundy, Duke Phillip, had tried to tax English trade at levels Caxton and his colleagues considered unfair.
It had only been in the last year that relations had been restored when Caxton had managed to persuade his fellow merchants of the advantages to be reaped from a return to Brugge.
He was a good-looking man, William Caxton — tall and still strong from a lifetime of hard work — and there was a little spark between them. Anne could not deny that, though he was married, very married, to the haughty Maud, a fellow English merchant’s daughter intent on buying into court honours at home, in England, when William had made enough money. Anne’s invitation would not please his wife when she heard.
Perhaps the Devil made her do it? She giggled with the thought — definitely the Lion, not the Lamb today!
Caxton smiled too, slightly puzzled. ‘Something amuses you, lady?’
‘Oh, just a passing thought, Master Caxton. Deborah, can you see Maxim?’
It was hard to find the servants in the large throng inside the church because she wasn’t tall enough to see over their heads. William Caxton, courteous and capable, had matters organised quickly. ‘Stay with your mistress, Deborah. I’ll find him.’
The bells from the belfry in the Markt were still ringing at the end of mass as the slightly augmented party from the House of Cuttifer walked amongst the townspeople of Brugge, only now beginning to fill the vast cobbled square.
The city was fully awake at last on this miserably cold winter morning and Anne felt guilty that she’d insisted on so many of Mathew’s people accompanying her to St Donaas’ — they’d have a cold walk home whilst she was warm and snug. Courteously she’d offered Master Caxton a place in the litter, but she knew, as he did, that it would not be wise for him to take it.
To be seen reclining beside the Lady Anne de Bohun would create even more gossip, gossip which would reach the sanctimonious Maud Caxton in a flash. No, safest for him to walk beside the litter, respectably surrounded by the household of Anne’s patron.
As always, though, when he was with Anne, Caxton found he forgot much of what he wanted to say as he strolled across the Markt square beside the litter. It was unnerving. It had to do with the unusual directness of her glance, when she chose to employ it, and also, if he was feeling honest that day, the succulent quality of the skin on her throat. He wouldn’t have been a man if such skin left him unmoved. He’d confess his carnal thoughts later — tomorrow. For now, he felt warmer each time he permitted himself to look at her. No bad thing on such a freezing morning.
Caxton sighed. He would have to concentrate when they had their interview together shortly. She was clever and subtle for one so young, qualities which had caused disquiet amongst the cautious members of his guild when Sir Mathew introduced her into their comfortable, closed world as his ward; disquiet which now sent him, William Caxton, on this fool’s errand!
Sometimes, Caxton disliked being English very much. When Anne had first arrived in Brugge, Sir Mathew had approached Caxton on her behalf saying Anne wished to invest in his trading-house in Brugge, to become his joint-venture business partner.
Perhaps it was the girl’s intelligence, perhaps her persuasiveness when she eventually talked to him herself about her plans to become a trader, but Caxton, as Governor of the Guild, had promised that the Merchant Adventurers would consider their joint request carefully, unusual though that request was; but in so doing, he had reaped the whirlwind.
Citing passages from the Bible, his affronted colleagues had declared it was, first, a scandal that Anne was setting up to be a merchant at all, even in partnership with her guardian; second, that no one might trade as part of their guild without first having been apprenticed through said guild — a clear impossibility in her case; and, third, that it was, of course, highly unsuitable that she wished to trade without a husband to guide her.
Thus, even though Mathew Cuttifer, her business partner and a man they all respected, had personally put forward Anne’s case for special entry to the Guild, his request was declined. She simply could not be admitted — for if they made an exception with her, where would it end?
Improper thoughts could be encouraged in their very wives, and that would challenge the nature of family structure as ordained by God. A woman should be subservient to her husband, it was his proper place to govern her and to provide for the household. The woman’s place was to be a helpmeet, never more.
For a single girl such as Anne to work like a man, making money in trade, was a scandalous, even blasphemous, affront to all right-thinking Christian men.
Thus Master Caxton walked silently beside her litter, oppressed by his thoughts, as Anne bowed and smiled to the townsfolk she knew, who, like herself, were hurrying back to their warm homes from the mass.
Of course, on his own way to St Donaas’ this morning, Caxton had been stopped several times by friends, busy to tell him about the attack on Anne de Bohun the night before.
News of the attack had been another reason he’d wanted to speak to her. Perhaps, in one stroke, he had a solution to all the difficulties her unmarried state posed for his colleagues, and for her. He would help Mathew find his ward a husband. There’d been no shortage of candidates when he’d canvassed the idea amongst his colleagues; many of the English merchants had sons looking for a well-dowered wife and some were widowers searching for their next spouse. Anne was more than welcome under these circumstances; each of them would be delighted to educate this girl and turn her away from such unsuitable, unfeminine notions as working for a living, whilst at the same time, the lucky husband could also secure more working capital. And there was the question of the girl’s body, which, they had all noted — including their jealous wives — was very fair, another useful adjunct to any marriage.
Caxton grimaced. Snatching a quick glance down at Anne, he knew his own feelings for this girl were far from fatherly. Still, she’d listen to reason, he felt sure. He’d always found her reasonable.
Chapter Six
‘I thank you for your kind thoughts of my well-being, but I have no wish to marry at the moment, Master William.’
Anne smiled pleasantly, but she was quite definite as she broke her fast with the English merchant after mass in Sir Mathew’s hall. She had no need to tell the merchant her own, secret reasons for such a radical stance, but they were profound. After her experiences at Edward’s court in London, she was deeply reluctant to trust any man to control her life — and that of her son — unless it was on her terms, an unlikely thing in most marriage contracts.
As they talked, William was slightly distracted at this, his first sight of Mathew Cuttifer’s new house, for it was fine indeed. The hall smelt fragrantly of beeswax rubbed into the honey-coloured oak furniture that had been brought from England; the colours too were harmonious and simple, with walls either a rich sepia or washed with rose, and the great hall itself had a ceiling painted a dense, dark blue powdered with gilded stars. William noticed the pretty device for the first time as he leant back and looked up, thinking of what he must next say to his hostess. He’d have to concentrate for he was more than replete and the excellent small-beer added a pleasant, warm buzz of excitement increased by the girl sitting beside him. He’d always appreciated beauty.
He stole a gl
ance at his hostess. Her composure told him nothing as she finished the last of the venison pastie she’d been served. William was impressed by that venison — she’d been personally sent a splendid haunch from Duke Charles’ most recent kill in his game preserves around Brugge, and Maitre Flaireau had made excellent use of every scrap of the generous gift.
Strange that a pie should represent so much. It testified to Anne’s standing with the new duke as Sir Mathew’s ward — he and Duke Charles’ father, Duke Phillip, had been friends of long standing — and, perhaps, it contained a message about her future because it was a most generous gift, a sign of great favour.
Anne must have served it to him with a purpose — perhaps she wanted him to spread the news to his colleagues that she was not without friends. And perhaps it meant that some of the rumours he’d heard about Charles and Anne really were true — he’d have to find a way to ask her tactfully. Though it was an odd thought, considering what he had to tell her shortly.
‘Father, if you’ve eaten sufficient of what this house can offer, perhaps you would bless us all before we go about our work?’
Anne had one other guest this morning, an Italian Franciscan monk. Personally, Caxton regarded all friars and monks of the mendicant orders as pests, especially if they were Franciscans. For followers of the most humble of God’s servants — as Saint Francis saw himself — they could be mighty arrogant and venal sometimes: parasites, and corrupters of women.
Therefore he’d been surprised to find this Friar Giorgio waiting for Anne on their return and even more surprised to see the honour with which this unexpected guest was treated. He was a young man, too, and good looking, if one favoured the dark skin and brown eyes of the south.
His hostess would need to have a care — this man, his obviously familiar presence at Sir Mathew’s table, would be yet another cause for scandal if it were generally known.
‘Dear Lady Anne, you honour me, a poor Friar.’ The merchant had difficulty in keeping the scorn from his face, for Friar Giorgio was hardly the picture of a poor man. His habit was made from the finest, most densely dyed black woollen cloth and he wore boots of fashionable, soft leather instead of the customary sandals on his feet.
The friar stood and raised his right hand, slowly tracing the sign of the cross over the people below the dais where he’d been sitting. ‘May the good Lord look down upon our work this day and, at this its end, may we sleep the peaceful sleep of the just and the worthy in God’s sight. Amen.’
William was surprised — he’d been expecting the priest to speak in Latin, but the blessing was well and gracefully made in French, with hardly a hint of an Italian accent. This was an educated man, plainly, not like some of the ignorant brigands who claimed the shelter of a cleric’s robes.
‘Amen,’ echoed Anne with the household and, after a moment for quiet reflection, she smiled warmly at her guests. ‘Father Giorgio, we are most grateful for your blessing. I shall look forward to our conversation later today, perhaps after None? You must be very tired after your long journey. I think Deborah has the guest chamber prepared — you must rest well before we speak.’
William did not know, and Anne was not about to tell him, that Father Giorgio was part of a long-term plan she had. Before her son was born, they’d met at the convent where she’d been hidden, at which he regularly said mass for the sisters. He knew her secret — but then she also knew his.
He was a worldly man, this priest, and yet devout, but his great weakness was a love of young men. He flogged himself for it, but could not resist. Anne had once found him with a young shepherd who tended the sisters’ flocks in the fields outside the convent. She could have destroyed him with what she saw, but though the Bible condemned his feelings for the beautiful young peasant boy, and the acts they had performed in the fields together, she could not blame another human being for seeking the comfort of love, wherever it was offered.
She too understood how hard it was to love what was forbidden in the eyes of the world. No, she was not shocked by his passions, but she was sorry for him, so sorry that he was trapped in a life which could not allow him to express who he truly was. And her compassion made her a friend for life — and a commercial ally — for the priest was a well-travelled man.
Now, for the first time since her son was born, Friar Giorgio had come to visit Anne in Brugge with precious information: news of fashions in Italy and Paris — even bringing her samples of new fabrics with drawings of clothing and the ways women were dressing their hair. He was an amusing and adroit penman, amongst many other talents.
Since he was good-looking and personable too, he had told Anne that many other fashionable, well-bred women in Rome, Venice, Florence and Paris welcomed his occasional visits, inviting him to their houses and to their tables, and in return for saying mass, they gave him news and amusing gossip. Giorgio’s taste mirrored Anne’s own and they had much to offer one another if her plans to become a trader were realised. He could be her eyes and ears in the world — they could help each other to prosper.
Giorgio kissed Anne’s hand like a courtier, with a deep flourishing bow, as Maxim escorted him from the hall, but phlegmatic Englishman that he was, Caxton found he deeply distrusted this priest who smelled very faintly of roses.
With a start, he remembered again that he must find a way to persuade his hostess for her own good, and his, that he had the key to her future happiness. And with some urgency, if his wife was not to be too displeased with his prolonged absence.
‘Lady Anne, may I claim a little more of your time?’
Anne smiled as she led him from the hall. After cutting off the subject of her potential marriage, she was well aware that Master Caxton must be fretting. However, she’d learnt commercial strategy from a master, Mathew Cuttifer. Speaking of rivals in trade, he’d always said to her, ‘Let them wait when they want something from you. Delay their access. That way you have the advantage when you finally allow them to speak in your presence — they’ll blurt out more than they ever intended and you will learn more than they want you to know.’
‘Will you come to the workroom then, Master Caxton?’ Mathew Cuttifer’s parlour gave her a private meeting place whilst he was away, and was well furnished with a suite of handsome tapestries and simple chairs upholstered in gold-stamped leather. This room was where she would hang Hans Memlinc’s painting until she made enough from trade to find a house of her own; and for that, she needed William Caxton’s help with the guild.
It was a still, cold day, for now the early sleet had turned to snow and as Steven, the household page, hurried to bank up the fire in its hooded embrasure in the corner of the room, a curtain of white fell silently outside the casement windows.
The room looked out into the walled heber at the back of the house — it was of a good size and in summer was a green bower murmurous with the sound of bees from the coiled straw bee-skips in the kitchen garden. But now, as the snow fell, it was drained of colour except for the red of the brick walls enclosing the space. Here and there some few yellow leaves clung to the branches of espaliered pears, quince and medlar, but the life of the garden was hidden in the ground, waiting for spring.
Some people hated this time of year, the feeling that the earth had died, but Caxton loved nature in all its seasons, even winter, if one had the money to keep warm. He shivered suddenly, the image of beggars in the Markt holding out hands reddened with chilblains, pleading for alms. There but for the Grace of God.
‘Are you cold, Master Caxton? Come, let us draw chairs closer to the fire. Thank you, Steven.’ The young page had hurried to draw two of the handsome Italian fruitwood chairs closer to the hearth. ‘Please ask Deborah to bring us some mulled wine when she has settled Father Giorgio ...’
But for the crackle of the fire there was silence for a moment as William Caxton collected his thoughts. Anne was content to wait — she would not begin this conversation.
‘Lady Anne, I had news that you were attacked last night.�
�� He turned towards her earnestly, searching to see what effect his words had. Anne smoothed the velvet of her dress over her knees, half distracted by the lustre of the pile as she turned it with her hand. Warm, dark silver flickered beneath her fingers. ‘Yes. But I was well protected.’
Her expression was neutral and her words were calm, unsensational. William frowned.
‘But do you know who it was?’
Anne controlled her breathing as her heartbeat ramped up with the memory. She allowed herself to sigh, and shrug as if slightly impatient. ‘No. But certainly two of them died, perhaps more; we did not find all the bodies. Ivan ...’ Again she shrugged, this time philosophically ‘... Ivan is a good servant. Zealous. Still, they did not get what they came for.’
There was a very slight quaver in her voice which she could not disguise. Caxton looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Lady Anne, I hope you will allow me to speak frankly to you.’
‘Again, Master Caxton?’ She was smiling brightly now, but the raised eyebrows signalled he should be cautious; that what he needed to say might not be entirely welcome. Against the advice of a still, small inner voice, he continued.
‘The fearful events of last night prove to me, and my fellows at the Guild, that the wisdom of our stance is correct.’
Anne sat very still and Caxton found the directness of her eyes disconcerting. He had a distinct urge to lean forward and take her hands in his, to soften the blow to come. He resisted — such a gesture might be misinterpreted.
‘Lady, we cannot admit you to the Guild. It would not be right, not correct.’
Anne bit back a response. In her heart she had known it, but her throat closed over and she was shamed to feel tears gathering in her eyes.
The Exiled Page 5