The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  It was more than hard to concentrate now that she knew Edward, and also Elisabeth, would be present at the archery contest. Yet she had sought this, arranged it and on one level, though it was foolhardy, a clear signal was being sent to her enemies: Anne de Bohun refused to go away. Anne de Bohun had very powerful friends. Anne de Bohun had survived and would prosper.

  Proud and strong, that was the subtext of this message. And yet, today of all days, Anne did not feel brave. She would not have been human if fear had not coloured the elation and exhaustion of last night.

  Edward. She would see him again after their tumultuous night together. Gods grant she found the strength to appear unmoved by his presence at the contest.

  But she had barely sat down to review the timetable for the contest when Deborah announced William Caxton. Anne, out of politeness, had no choice but to invite her guest into the workroom.

  ‘Maxim, and you too, Ivan, I shall spend a little time with Master William, but that is all; please be ready to continue our discussion.’

  The words were barely out of her mouth as the two men left and William was admitted, but Anne could not suppress concern when she saw him.

  ‘William, what is wrong?’

  It was as if her capable, vigorous friend had aged a decade overnight.

  ‘Anne, did you know?’

  ‘Know what, William? You are agitated. Please sit here in the breeze from the window. Are you thirsty, or hun—’

  He did not allow the words out of her mouth.

  ‘Did you know that the queen has arrived?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anne was astonished at William’s intensity.

  ‘The archery contest? When did you decide to stage it?’

  ‘When the marriage was announced, Master William. This is for the duke, his bride and the people of Brugge. It is my gift to each one of them.’

  Poor Caxton; this contest would create yet more trouble over the days ahead for it would place Anne at the centre of the court’s attention once more, and that had to be good for trade. However, the warring factions of the Merchant Adventurers — those who opposed, and those who supported Anne — were only a distraction here, today.

  Anne sensed William was hiding something, something important. ‘What is wrong, Master Caxton?’

  Caxton suddenly lost his nerve, his certainty. What if he was wrong? The Queen of England plotting to murder this girl? What if it was all fevered imaginings, paranoia?

  He got up abruptly and leant out of the casement window, snuffing up the rich scent of freshly scythed grass from her heber. Such a comforting smell, so real ...

  Then, seeming to make up his mind, he swung back to look at Anne.

  ‘Have you ever met the king before? Or the queen?’

  ‘I ... William, I’m so sorry, but I have so much to do.’

  ‘Anne! You must listen to me. I think it was the queen who tried to kill you. There may be proof.’

  That was a shock. He hurried on, his words tumbling into Anne’s stricken silence.

  ‘Perhaps you know why, perhaps you do not. I believe it is true, however. And there is more.’

  ‘Mistress?’ Deborah had knocked and pushed the door open in the same moment. She did not necessarily trust William Caxton, whatever debt to him her mistress felt she was under.

  Anne was distracted, she was also angry. But that was from fear.

  ‘That was not well done, Deborah. Master Caxton and I were speaking privately.’

  It was unlike Anne to be cold, even less likely that she would stare her foster-mother down with such command. Deborah was undaunted, however.

  ‘Lady Anne, Baron Piotr Windhoven has called to see you are safe after the banquet last night. He says you asked him to call on you.’

  And behind Deborah, waiting in the hall, Anne could see the knight himself, well within hearing range, though pretending to gaze with great attention at the Saint George over the mantelpiece.

  Anne had no choice.

  ‘Master William, do we see you at the butts this afternoon? You would be most welcome and we could finish our conversation then?’

  The merchant picked up one of Anne’s hands to kiss it.

  ‘Nothing that I know on this earth would prevent my attendance. Such august company — the duke, the duchess, the king and his queen.’

  He did not have to say more. Anne had seen fear in his eyes, she would not let him see it in hers.

  William bowed himself through the door as Anne moved forward to welcome Baron Piotr. ‘Baron, you are welcome in our house. Deborah, would you bring refreshments into the heber, if you please?’ Her tone was neutral, but Deborah was dismayed and had the terrible feeling that she had interrupted something of vital importance, and she knew it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In the perverse way of late summer, the perfect still morning turned ominously heavy by early afternoon.

  A fitful wind from the west was blustering from a darkening horizon, a bad omen for an archery contest. Old men who knew such things nodded to each other and said a storm was building, yet that did not dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd gathering at the contest ground, impatient for the archer’s heats to begin.

  Maxim had excelled himself. Anne had instructed him to spend whatever was required to make the day a success, much to Meinheer Boter’s despair. How would the townsfolk of Brugge have ever known the difference if his mistress had just been sensible? Surely the stands erected for the audience need only be simple, unvarnished wood, yet he’d been made to use Anne’s only recently acquired coin — the foundation of her future — for extravagantly gilded, painted galleries, decorated with bright felt banners.

  And as to offering free food to the endless crowd? Had Maxim no idea what such a thing would cost?

  Maxim had, of course, and it worried him greatly; he too had a responsibility. Not so, Anne — she was determined to provide for the entire town of Brugge, if that was what it took to make men remember this day. It would be an excellent investment — goodwill was a priceless commodity for a merchant!

  She had just finished walking over the contest ground with Maxim, and she was excited and delighted with what she saw.

  It was such a pretty sight. A line of tightly braided straw butts had been arrayed, back-on to the river Zwijn, whilst lining each side of the ground the stands which had occasioned Meinheer Boter’s heartburn were bravely painted in red and green, enhanced with lavish gilding in all the most prominent places.

  Flags flew, snapping and flapping in the fitful air: the red bear of Brugge and the arms of England hung from alternate poles, arranged at intervals behind each of the galleries. And, too, because she had the duke’s support, a special stand had been erected in which the expected royal party would sit.

  It was most luxurious. Backless benches had been ranged in tiered rows, each supplied with part-coloured red and green velvet cushions tasselled in heavy gold, and four chairs of state were placed at the very front, in clear sight of the common people: one each for the duke and his duchess, the other two for the King and Queen of England.

  These last two chairs had taxed even Maxim’s ingenuity to breaking point. Where, at the very last minute, did one find two extra chairs of estate, fit for reigning monarchs? Find them he did, of course, but it had taken a truly indecent sum of money to bribe Duke Charles’ own under-chancellor to permit use of the very chairs that had been used at the wedding feast the night before.

  A quick re-dress with new green velvet cushions and they looked, well, if not completely different, different enough to puzzle those who were about to sit in them.

  And so it began.

  Anne’s seamstresses had made her a dress of her own, imported forest-green damask, a tribute to the famous Lincoln green of England’s archers, which had a number of whimsical additions.

  Slung around her chest was a silver-gilt quiver containing gilded arrows plus a tiny hunting horn studded with emeralds. She also wore a jaunty green cap with a long cur
ling pheasant feather, a feather which matched the deep russet of her hair caught back, behind her head, in a simple bone clasp.

  Now Anne waited in front of the stands packed with happy townsfolk as distant trumpets announced the arrival of the court party from the direction of the Prinsenhof.

  With a bright smile, she signalled Maxim to advance towards the duke and the bridal party.

  Anne did not immediately see Edward, but when she did breath left her as their eyes met. She would not hold his glance, however, dropping into a curtsey, ducking her head for a moment; anything to regain poise in his physical presence. The images he evoked in her — the sense of having been with him, naked only such a short time before — was confronting, exciting, strange; for now they must pretend to be strangers, even though he smiled so yearningly at her bent head as he dismounted.

  Elisabeth missed the glance from Edward to their hostess, however, for at that moment — to contrive maximum focus for herself — she’d covertly spurred her horse as the court party advanced the last few paces towards the contest ground. Not unnaturally, her palfrey — a finely bred steel-grey Arab with a white mane and tail — had reared in outrage and leapt forward, unsettling other horses in the party and causing courtiers to jump out of the way.

  The crowd in the stands was therefore treated to the sight of the handsome King of England personally calming his wife’s horse. What they did not see was Edward’s angry frown at the blood running down the Arab’s belly, a wound which could only have been caused by Elisabeth Wydeville’s vicious spurs.

  But the queen had achieved what she set out to do — all eyes were on her, not the duchess, not the duke, not even the king her husband, as the court party were bowed forward by Maxim to where Anne waited, pale but resolute, in front of the crowded stands.

  One, two, three more strides and the dazzling court party was within touching distance. One, two, three more breaths as the trumpets blew and Anne dropped into a perfect court curtsey from which she was raised, personally, by the duke.

  There was a moment’s breathless silence in the stands as those lucky enough to have seats leant forward to hear their duke.

  ‘Lady Anne, you have excelled yourself.’

  He gestured around the beautifully laid out ground, the lavish seating for the common people and the exquisite stand created for the court party.

  ‘Ah, Lord Duke, this is a trifle. And only to express the humble gratitude of my guardian, Sir Mathew Cuttifer — who is not with us today — and myself, for your great kindness to us,’ Anne bowed to the duke, which he gracefully acknowledged with the merest hint of a smile, ‘and the joy we all feel today, at the sight of your most lovely duchess.’ Another, even deeper bow to Margaret, who, as she was now close enough to see Anne’s face clearly, was looking puzzled.

  ‘And we are also particularly grateful for the presence of our sovereign, King Edward,’ now Anne knelt, head humbly bowed, at Edward’s feet, ‘and his most gracious queen.’ It was beautifully done, and though most who looked at the little pageant were merely dazzled by the beauty of the moment, there were others amongst the court party who found themselves perplexed.

  Perplexed by the expression on Queen Elisabeth’s face — a frozen smile that did not change, yet was strange indeed for its lifelessness — and that on Edward’s face as well. For the king gazed down with unusual intensity upon the bent head of Anne de Bohun.

  Nothing escaped the duke, of course.

  Those who knew him well were confused for he looked like a man enjoying a private joke as he, personally, insisted on raising Anne to her feet once more, much to Edward’s barely concealed annoyance as he too had stepped forward, holding out his hand to Anne.

  But all Anne’s nerves vanished when she saw the mischievous glint in the duke’s eyes. He was being profoundly naughty, she could see that, and the gambler in her heart stirred and stretched. There was a plan being hatched here but Duke Charles was on her side, or so said his sidelong wink as he helped her up. Now, if she could just work out what he wanted her to do.

  Anne’s guests were soon seated, as the crowd stamped and cheered, whistled and shouted. They wanted the contest to begin, that’s what the men had really come for. For the women it was different, of course. They’d come to see the bride, and the clothes. They weren’t disappointed. The noble guests in the royal stand were all lavishly attired, none more so than Anne de Bohun, the remarkable English girl who had made this happy day possible.

  There was a sudden mutter of thunder and anxious eyes were cast to the western horizon again. The clouds were ominously darker and the wind had dropped. Livid sulphurous light cast a strange glimmer abroad; even a neighbour’s face looked eerie, let alone those of strangers, in the odd greenish glow from the sky. Hurriedly people in the crowd crossed themselves: let this not be a bad omen for the start of this marriage they’d all wanted so much.

  A hunting horn rang loud as a golden arrow flew to the centre butt, finding the black circle at its heart. There was a shocked gasp from the crowd and the court party. Anne had signalled the beginning of the heats by firing the first arrow herself. The crowd could not know, but Anne had been brought up as a child to shoot true with her own small bow; she and Deborah had lived in the forest alone and there was much wild food to be found, especially in hard winters. She might be rusty from lack of practice, but the instinct had never gone away.

  To the delighted applause of the crowd and the court party — though not from the queen — Maxim announced the form of the contest in a loud voice, as he signalled the first contestants to step forward.

  The archers had been selected on a first come, first served basis and as expected, there had been a frenzied rush of entrants from both the city and the court when the contest had been formally called out by criers, hired by Anne, on the streets this morning.

  In the first round, there would be twelve heats, each composed of twelve archers apiece. Then the three top-scoring archers from each heat would compete against each other in a further three rounds of twelve archers, but only the winning archer from each of these semifinals would go into the final round. The victor of the final twelve would take the entire money prize plus Anne’s silver quiver with its uniquely valuable arrows.

  As the first twelve men took their place before the line of targets amongst loud encouragement and jeers from the citizens in the stands, the members of the court party settled into their luxurious seating, determined to enjoy the day.

  Not so, Queen Elisabeth. Only rigid will allowed a smile to stay in place, but her eyes, those famous blue eyes, were as cold as the deep North Sea as Anne returned to her place, a deliberately small though luxurious stool, to the right of the thrones in the court stand.

  The duchess smiled at Anne and beckoned her forward, speaking quietly as the other girl curtsied.

  ‘Lady Anne, it seems we must have met before today, but I cannot recall where that might have been. Was it at court in London?’

  Duchess Margaret was a shrewd girl, and she had a good memory for faces. But for once she was questioning what she remembered. Surely it was not possible that a servant in Elisabeth’s suite only a few years ago was now an ennobled merchant, in high favour with the duke in Brugge? She must be mistaken, surely? A case of two women looking remarkably alike?

  The queen, pretending to be entranced at the sight of her subjects contesting with the Bruggers, did not appear to be listening, but Edward was, as was the duke.

  ‘Duchess, you have never met Lady Anne de Bohun before. I have lands in the west country ... and I have always preferred a simple life.’ It was curious wording — to speak about yourself in the third person was almost the conceit of a poet — but for Anne, it was the truth. She had not been Lady Anne de Bohun at Westminster, that came afterwards when she told the king who she was, and he had ratified her right to the title given to her mother.

  And she did, indeed, prefer a simple life. It was just that life had not worked out that way.

&nb
sp; ‘A simple life, Lady Anne? How can the life of a merchant be simple. And such a successful one as yours seems?’ Now it was the queen who spoke and she had never sounded more gentle, more sweet.

  Anne answered the queen in a low voice. ‘Your Majesty, I strive to live quietly, giving offence to none. And some might call that simple.’

  The crowd suddenly roared into life. The victors of the first heat were announced to another crack of thunder.

  ‘Simple to me means the life of a peasant — would you not agree, my liege? Servants, too, are often simple. But then, servants do not necessarily stay servants.’ The queen had turned with a glittering smile to Edward, determined to involve him. There was a moment of sweating silence — the crowd was stilled, waiting the first shot of the next heat and the wind had dropped so that the queen’s words were unnaturally loud.

  Edward’s eyes were fixed on Anne’s as he answered.

  ‘Peasant is a much abused word, wife, as is servant. We are servants of our people, are we not? And to be simple is a noble condition — it was our Lord’s way. And some would have called Him a peasant, since He was the son of a carpenter.’

  ‘Ah yes, but he was of noble descent, was he not?’

  The queen was pleasant, for all the world playing a courtly game of banter, engaging her knight the king in a contest of wit and allusion.

  ‘We are none of us as we seem — Christ recognised that. He looked for the noble beneath the rags, it seems to me; fishermen were good enough for him. And lepers and tax collectors. Even women of ill repute.’

  Elisabeth allowed herself to become arch.

  ‘Ah, women of ill repute? Yes, that was indeed gracious of Him. If legend is to be believed, many an earthly king consorts with whores, though for different reasons than salvation, I suppose.’ That got the attention of the courtiers; it was unlike the queen to be coarse or to allude to Edward’s famous appetite for other women. She must be feeling very threatened to be so frank, in public.