The Duke smiled gently. ‘Unfair? It seems to me you tried to shut her out, and she still made you look like fools. She has a lot of friends at my court. I count myself amongst them. Though, naturally, I would wish this ... mystery to be successfully addressed so that good relations amongst all your community can be speedily restored.’
The slight stress on ‘all’ was a warning note, and William swallowed a sigh. He hated this, every bit of it.
‘That is my hope also, Your Grace. But there are others, it seems, who had stronger feelings, more dangerous feelings, about the Lady Anne than any of my colleagues. And we were told who they might be. I tried to warn her myself.’ He guttered to a halt; he could not avoid the knowledge that in running with the many against his own judgment, the girl had nearly died.
‘In fact, my Guild asked me to warn her, but ...’
Now was the time, there was no help for it. ‘“We”’ yes, it was true, it had been “we”, ‘attached certain ... conditions to giving Lady Anne the information we’d been given. Under those circumstances she refused our help. And you are aware of the result.’
Confession vented, William waited for the duke to speak. But Charles was silent. His practice armour having been removed, along with sweaty felt jerkin beneath, he was now being rubbed down, naked, with oil and salt on a specially constructed high table by a Moor — a giant man with very black skin and very pink palms — who was a deaf-mute; useful during confidential conversations.
William allowed his last sentences to drift off into the silence. He could hear the shouts of those who were still practising at the quintain, but the noise was dreamlike, distant. All his attention was concentrated on this one small moment, this unpretentious little room which smelt of new sweat and sweet oil.
The silent Moor massaged his master’s glistening shoulders. Duke Charles sighed with pleasure.
‘Ah, this is good; so good for the body. I’m never stiff, even after the quintain. You should try it yourself, Master William.’
‘I do not joust, sire.’
The duke chuckled at the irony. ‘Why do I get the impression of fear from you, Master Caxton?’
The mercer was shocked. And embarrassed. Things had come to a dreadful pass indeed if his very emotions were now on public display!
One, two, three — a silent count to calm his ragged breath, then —
‘Duke Charles, those who wish to kill Anne have a vested interest in destroying the alliance of your house and the English crown.’
The duke became very still under the masseur’s hands. Then he turned his head so that the Moor could see his eyes, and his mouth.
‘Enough, Aseef. You will be called.’ He voiced the words to the gigantic Moor, but it was the duke’s sign language the massive man understood. Bowing to his master, and then the mercer, Aseef left the room.
The duke sat up. ‘Think extremely carefully about what you want to say to me, merchant.’
‘Sire, I have come to ask your advice, for truly I am grieved beyond measure by all that has passed in the last days. And now, so close to your wedding, I truly fear that events are moving almost too fast to control.’
‘Who do you think tried to kill her?’
William swallowed.
‘My information is that Queen Elisabeth Wydeville wants the girl dead. And she wants you implicated in this murder.’
The duke was puzzled.
‘But how could the death of this pretty lady, even though she is English, affect King Edward?’
‘My information has it that King Edward once had a profound tendresse for the Lady Anne. He does not know she is in Brugge, but sources at court say he loves her still. Now there are many powerful forces in Britain who do not approve of a union between your two houses, not least the French. If the queen made the king believe you had killed his former love out of jealous passion perhaps — there have been rumours, forgive me, Your Grace.’
Again the duke snorted. ‘Spread by the very jealous wives of your merchants because it is known that I have rarely favoured English women — until now?’
The merchant nodded. ‘Perhaps, but if the queen succeeds and makes King Edward believe her, then this alliance between Burgundy and England will be mortally weakened before it has begun; and she can use the fury of the king to increase her own power, and the power base of her family. He will have no one else to turn to. Besides, she would have preferred the princess to marry a man of her choosing, not the king’s.’
The duke frowned.
‘But the archer disappeared? What proof is there that he worked for the queen?’
Caxton nodded. ‘He did escape. There must have been ... friends. But we have this.’
William Caxton pulled a small parchment scroll from within his sleeve.
‘One of our merchants was given this on his last journey to trade for wool in the Cotswolds. Slipped to him at dinner one night. We think it is the copy of a dispatch, in cipher, from Queen Elisabeth herself to an unnamed accomplice.’
The text of the letter, which began with an admonition to thank God and ask for his blessing each day by repeating the Paternoster, was in a mixture of French, Latin, Flemish and a few English words.
It seemed a perfectly innocuous request for confirmation about prices quoted for raw wool, worked wool and various types of cloth available in various towns in England and Europe at the date of writing. It was the kind of utilitarian communication, penned in the universal argot of European trade, that merchants routinely sent to their partners in other countries.
The duke frowned. ‘Prove to me this is a cipher, Master William.’
William could feel sweat slip down his sides as he unrolled the document onto the massage bench and weighted it at each corner with flasks of oil and a strigil left by the Moor.
‘The key, sire, is in the numbers. As the great Greek sage Pythagorus tells us, seen correctly, numbers decipher the universe.’
The duke frowned. ‘Careful, Master William. This smacks of heresy, or even sorcery.’
‘No, sire, just practical common sense. See, here is mention of the price of, say, greasy wool per pound in various villages of the Cotswolds, including Upper Slaughter. Now here is the same item in Venice, here in Ghent, here in Brugge, and here in Florence. Now, further down, we have other separate prices quoted for washed and carded wool, in the same places. And, not only is each sum very different for greasy wool, washed and carded wool, as you see ... they also vary wildly from town to town.’
The duke nodded. Looked at closely, the prices made no sense.
‘I can assure you that these values are nothing like the real prices paid during this current season, nor the last, nor the one before that. They are false. Therefore, to find the cipher, ignoring the fact that each number is supposed to be a price, you group each of the numbers/prices as they are mentioned for separate items like this ... greasy wool across ten named towns, then carded wool in each place, then spun wool, and so on.’
The merchant now offered another piece of parchment.
‘Each of these groups of numbers can be used to find a letter, which in turn will spell out words. The Paternoster is the key. It is mentioned at the start of the letter — the unnamed recipient is instructed to say the prayer at the commencement of each working day — so the prayer itself is the source of letters which will make up the eventual message. And now, if we look at the groups of numbers we have created with this in mind ...’
William had brought a missal with him, and as he and the duke pored over the words of the ancient prayer, whilst consulting the numbers — the first number in any group locating a line of the prayer, the second number pointing to a word in the chosen line and the third number indicating a letter within the word — slowly, a message emerged.
‘Kill A de B at Brugge before king arrives for wedding. Use weapon of Christ. See separate token as evidence of good faith. Payment as agreed. Woman of oak tree.’
The duke said nothing as William rolled up
the scroll. Then, ‘I have many questions. But this is the first. Why did you not come to me before this?’
William swallowed. He was walking on very, very delicate ground.
‘This letter was given to a colleague of mine. He told me of it, but also, he told others who hold office in our guild. None of us wanted to believe it — after all, it seems preposterous — but there have been many amongst the English merchants who are opposed to Lady de Bohun, as you know and so, first, we searched amongst ourselves to see if, if ...’
‘You or yours was responsible for a hoax?’
William was grateful. ‘Yes, sire. That had been our first thought.’
The duke felt cold. Perhaps he was just cooling down after the massage, since he was only draped in a linen bath sheet, toga like, but perhaps it was something more. He shivered and held out a hand, interrupting William.
‘Pass me my clothes, Master William.’
William hurried to obey. Quickly scooping a cobweb-fine linen shirt, britches of woven scarlet wool, soft calf-length blue boots and a peacock bright jacket of blue and yellow, he helped the duke dress, noting ruefully the magnificent body of the man he did not serve, but had come to respect and yes, even like.
When the duke was dressed, the conversation continued.
‘Woman of the Oak Tree. What is this nonsense? It sounds pagan.’
‘Your Grace is perceptive. Oak trees in England have much significance. The common people associate them with the old ways. The old religions. And magic.’
Both men crossed themselves quickly. Magic was definitely heresy. And heresy could mean death even in such an enlightened city as Brugge. ‘It is said that the current queen first met our King Edward under an oak tree whilst he was fleeing from a storm out hunting. The English believe Elisabeth Wydeville’s mother is a witch and that she engineered this meeting. And it is said Elisabeth further enchanted the king with spells. They say she keeps him at her side through magic to this day. It is certain that she is powerful, for her beauty remains unnaturally perfect and her influence at court grows daily.’
‘But how can anyone be sure the queen is the author of this message — if message it is? What proof do you have?’
‘None. Except for this letter. And the fact that Anne was shot by a crossbow here in this city, ahead of your wedding; perhaps the name means it could be seen as the weapon of Christ. The shaft of the quarrel was oak, by the way. That is unusual. Ash is more commonly used.’
The duke looked consideringly at the merchant.
‘Anne de Bohun will live?’
William nodded and sighed. ‘Yes, praise God.’
‘Does King Edward know of this incident — the shooting, I mean, not the strange theory that you have advanced today?’
William shook his head
‘No, sire, it was felt, by my colleagues, that we should speak to you first. We need your advice.’
‘And I yours, merchant, I yours. This is most perplexing.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Have you told Anne your suspicions?’
Williams eyes were bleak as he shook his head. ‘I have not, Your Grace. And until we have more proof I will not disturb her convalescence. I pray that all I have told you is untrue.’
‘And so do I, merchant. I need allies and Burgundy, therefore, needs this marriage with England. I must frighten off the French, who nibble at my borders even now, and for that I need friends.’
He looked piercingly at the merchant.
‘We will not speak further of this, William Caxton, until you know more. But guard that girl well. If she is important to the king, then she is doubly important to me. To Brugge.’
Chapter Twenty
Seven more days had passed and the first really hot day encouraged the people of Brugge to abandon the wools, velvets and furs of winter in favour of lighter clothes. Bright new linens and Egyptian cottons printed in block, bold colours were seen everywhere on the streets as the housewives of Brugge tried to keep the dust down by sprinkling water on the unpaved streets before their doors.
Anne was healing well now, and like Maud, was impatient to go home. But strange things were happening: nothing was the same as it had been before the shooting.
In her other life in England, before her time in Brugge, there had been times when Anne had seen strange things — daytime dreams she had called them in her own mind, and mostly she’d rationalised them away in the bright, unclouded light of reality. Now, sometimes, since the shooting, when she looked into a person’s eyes, she received strange images, sounds, even smells. Frightening at first, she’d come to see they were impressions of what might come for that person: the good things and the bad.
Mostly she remained detached, as if seeing figures in a landscape from high up in a castle wall, yet today Anne was very troubled. For as she said goodbye to William and Maud, there was a moment, a flash, when she glimpsed William’s wife lying on a black-draped bier surrounded by candles. Dead. William, head bowed, was accepting condolences from mourners as he stood beside the wax-white corpse.
Shocked by what she saw, Anne instinctively, out of pity, reached out to embrace the other woman, but Maud drew back slightly; she did not like this girl and only duty to her husband’s position kept her standing there whilst William embraced Anne and wished her well.
‘Mistress Caxton, and you, Master Caxton, I thank you most humbly. Your kindness will never be forgotten.’
No, she would not forget what William had done — she valued his kind heart. He would go on living well, and, yes, accomplish great things — things she half saw, in London, near the Abbey Church of Saint Peter. But Maud, poor, cold, jealous Maud, would end her days in Brugge and be buried here, so far from family, so far from the land of her birth. Her children would be brought up by another woman and would barely remember what she’d looked like.
Anne’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Goodbye, Mistress Caxton. May you be kept well in God’s love.’ It was only a whisper and it could not have carried to the proud woman standing before the door of her handsome townhouse, yet Maud felt something touch her; she shook her head at the strange feeling of loss as Anne was carried away. Good riddance! Time to get on with their own lives again — and the wedding to look forward to! Now, if only she could get her grumpy husband to concentrate on the future, not the past.
‘Deborah, did I die?’ Both women had been avoiding the question whilst Anne recovered, day by day, in William Caxton’s great bed. Now, as they rode in the litter together, back to Mathew Cuttifer’s great house, the time had come. Deborah sighed.
‘Yes. I called you back.’
Profound anguish wrapped Anne like a suffocating cloak; she could hardly speak.
‘I could have stayed. I should have stayed.’
Deborah reached for Anne’s hand. ‘There is your son. And his father.’
The king and little Edward: the baby she’d not seen for days and days. She ached to hold him, kiss him; this was the real world, the prison of the flesh with all its attachments. Its joy and its pain. Slowly, very slowly, Anne was re-entering this life of the body from somewhere else, somewhere that she could half see in dreams. Somewhere that resonated with the sound of her mother’s voice.
But her confused and confusing thoughts were swallowed in joyful shouts as the litter stopped in front of the house where Maxim was holding little Edward, waving fat arms and crowing joyfully as soon as he saw her.
Anne refused to be carried in — the days of weakness were past — but as she kissed the little boy for the first time in so many days, the feeling grew and grew on her. It was time this child met his father, no matter what the consequences.
And it was time for her to meet Edward the king again.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was the greatest English fleet that had been assembled since the late French wars and they were all impatient to leave Dover, if only the wind would set fair.
The queen had journ
eyed with the court and her husband as far as Battle Abbey where a great feast was held on the night before they sailed to farewell the Princess Margaret. And it was there that Edward had formally announced that Elisabeth, his queen, would be regent of England, with a council headed by his brother Richard of Gloucester, even now riding to London from York, in the absence of Edward at his sister’s wedding.
Elisabeth smiled and nodded, graciously acknowledging the honour, but those at the high board, where she and Edward sat beneath twin Cloths of Estate, saw her twist her rings round and around, round and around. And saw too the dangerous frost in those famous blue eyes.
The queen was not happy. Not happy at all, and her servants knew they would pay later. It did not help that the Duchess Cicely, her mother-in-law, was also now journeying to Brugge with Edward — a regular family gathering — whilst she and her own mother, the Duchess Jacquetta, were left behind.
Of course, Edward had used the excuse of her pregnancy again, saying it was unsafe for the queen to travel at such a time, and that her mother should keep her company.
Such concern for Elisabeth’s health was rubbish. Had she not hunted almost until the birth of their second child, the Princess Mary, last year? Besides, she was not so pregnant yet that her condition need bother him, or her. The early to middle part of breeding always suited her well. It was only the very beginning, and the very end, that had caused her problems in the past.
But she had won no arguments with the king. Very well. If that were so, she had her own means of influencing events.
The queen was seen to smile, which pleased the king; he was always nervous when Elisabeth put on her most majestic persona. She still had the capacity to charm him, of course, but he was relieved she seemed to have finally accepted that she should stay safe in England whilst he and his blood family were at Margaret’s wedding.
It had been chancy, of course; Edward acknowledged that to himself. At first Elisabeth had absolutely refused to hear him when he’d said she must stay home for the good of the baby. She’d only been partially mollified when Edward had sacrificed Hasting’s company so that he could entertain the queen in his master’s absence.
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