The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  ‘Does the heart good, doesn’t it, Sister Bertha? Poor thing must have been perishing hungry.’

  Sister Joan, the Infirmaress, had a kind heart and a sweet smile. ‘Yes, indeed, Sister. She’s just like a starving child.’ Sister Bertha was the infirmaress’ long-time, particular friend — even though the rules of their convent forbad such close relationships between sisters — and because of this, Joan had never had the heart to tell her companion about the halitosis, though she grew a lot of mint in her garden; it served well to sweeten the breath — temporarily.

  ‘She shouldn’t have too much at first. She’ll be sick.’

  Behind them as she arrived, Sister Aelwin was chilly with disapproval. Bertha scrambled guiltily off the bed, sure she’d be made to do penance later for unnecessary propinquity, that was the prioress’s way.

  ‘Did you ask her where she comes from?’

  Sister Joan resented Aelwin’s tone. ‘No, Sister. It seemed best to let her eat something before we talked further.’ But Anne had finished the soup and started on the good bread supplied with it. As she chewed, she considered what to say in response to Aelwin’s enquiry, just now impatiently repeated directly to her.

  ‘Where do you come from, girl?’

  Anne bowed her head and her voice shook. ‘I don’t know, Sister. I’m a lost soul.’ This last part was the truth.

  Aelwin, nonplussed by the girl’s grief, did not question further — a rare moment of sensitivity.

  ‘I shall speak to Reverend Mother Elinor, after prayers. She will instruct us in what will be best.’

  The prioress soundlessly left the dorter in her felt house slippers, clearly expecting the other two nuns to follow.

  Joan delayed for one moment, brushing the crumbs from Anne’s bed — this one moment expressing most clearly, for those who understood the politics of Our Lady of the Sands, that obedience was a continuing problem for this bride of Christ, especially obedience to the prioress.

  ‘I’ll leave you the candle.’ Joan sketched the sign of the cross over Anne, then she and Bertha hurried away.

  The reek of singed, rancid animal-fat — the candle’s main constituent — was a severe trial to Anne, but for the first time in many, many days she was not wet, hungry, thirsty or cold. And she was grateful, very grateful.

  There was so much to remember, so much to forget. But though she would have welcomed darkness, oblivion, she was granted neither. Instead, like a pustulent wound, the memory of all that had happened, all those she had lost, ached and burned: her belly griped as if it’d been punched.

  The distant sea wash brought pain: she hated it, hated to hear the waves break and shuffle back on the sand; hated to hear the wind’s cry over the mudflats — the almost human keening as sand whipped and shifted uneasily in the dunes near the nunnery.

  Somewhere, distantly, nuns sang the evening prayers, the sound drifting, changing, with the wind from the sea.

  She could not stop the images, the sounds as, dreamlike, she remembered ...

  The stars had voices, surely? She’d begun to think they did as she lay in the coracle, going wherever the winds took her, for the days and nights had blurred in a fog of thirst: sun, stars and the sea, the sea, but she had heard the stars sing, hadn’t she?

  She knew there’d been a storm once and after it had gone, the rainwater saved her life. She’d lapped it up, sucking and licking the fresh water from the bottom of the coracle. Then it had become cold, much colder, and she’d wrapped herself in the sea cloak, cold and damp as it was, shivering, hallucinating as the winds blew her north, ever north.

  She remembered talking, too, holding long conversations with her son, and Edward and Deborah. She’d had dreams about them: they were all safe; they were all dead; the house in Brugge had burned to the ground; often she woke with tears running down her face, tears which, one freezing dawn, had turned to ice.

  And then another, bigger storm had come.

  Calmly she’d closed the mouth of the captain’s skin bag, lashing it to her wrist, and then huddled in the bottom of the coracle. If she was going to drown, she didn’t want to see the wave coming ...

  But if Anne had looked she might have seen — through lumped-up mounds of black water, through veils of rain — that there was land ahead and the mouth of a wide estuary. But she didn’t, so her wish was granted: the wave that finally swamped her little boat was an unseen monster and so the violent sea took her, tumbled her, skinning her of clothes as a hunter takes a rabbit’s fur.

  Swallowing so much water nearly killed her, should have killed her, but just before Anne’s lungs stopped functioning, she was thrown up on the shingled strand at the mouth of the river, still clutching the skin bag. There she lay, so close to death that she looked like part of the beach until Beck found her and carted her off to Our Lady of the Sands.

  But she heard the singing stars again. They joined with her, in the back of Beck’s cart, joined in high clear voices as she tried to sing her baby a lullaby from far, far away as the cart jolted on towards the nunnery, and life.

  Now, days later, lying in the dorter, all Anne could hear was the sea. The hungry sea. It wouldn’t get her now, wouldn’t get him, little Edward.

  Anne rolled over and in the moment before she slept, she prayed they were all safe, reciting their names like a novena, ‘Keep them and bless them: Edward, Edward and Deborah. Keep them and bless them: Edward, Edward and Deborah.’

  All she had were their names and they were her comfort, her only comfort.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Edward shivered violently and wrapped the fur-lined red cloak tighter as he strode into his own Presence chamber with Hastings, his chamberlain.

  Why did the Palace of Westminster always feel so much colder than his other houses? Shene, for example, or even York? And it had been so warm in Brugge, so ripe in its late, radiant summer. London never felt ripe, especially now, deep in the dank mists of autumn.

  ‘More braziers! Quickly, it’s like a tomb in here.’

  It was unlike Edward to be petulant or demanding, but there was a dangerous edge to the king’s tone today and at a discreet signal from Hastings, two men at arms hurried out of the Presence chamber to obey.

  The king mounted the three shallow steps to the Chair of Presence under his Cloth of Estate. This morning would be tedious as he must address a series of petitions from the merchants of London asking for tax relief.

  Tax relief! Anger burned his gullet at even the thought of the words. As king he was a pragmatist, a good one. He’d understood there would be resentment for the extra monies he’d asked for from the country, via the parliament, to make the necessary brave show at his sister’s wedding in Burgundy, but it angered him, undoubtedly it angered him.

  Did none of the idiot merchants waiting outside this room understand that the magnificent clothing, the largesse to his host the duke, the lavish entertainments he’d paid for during the wedding, had all been for the future of this country? For the future of trade?

  Margaret was marrying into one of the most powerful, and arguably, the most wealthy families in Europe. This was an outstanding strategic alliance for the country against France. It was good for England that the money was spent. Could these knaves, these fools, not see that?

  ‘Sir Mathew Cuttifer.’

  To hear the man announced opened the wound. Anne! For a moment he had to close his eyes and blink back hot tears.

  Hastings was astonished. And worried now, deeply worried. Since Edward and Elisabeth had returned to London from Dover, only a day or so ago, the king had been deeply distracted. And it was very clear there was trouble between husband and wife.

  Hastings felt for the king; the queen had defied his express orders of making her regent whilst he was absent from the kingdom, no wonder things were difficult between them. And though Edward was punctilious as always in his observances of Elisabeth’s dignity as queen, he barely spoke to her, never looked at her, and had kept to his own room
s as much as possible since they’d returned to London. The court was puzzled at first, but now fizzed with rumour and joyful innuendo about the imminent fall of the Wydevilles. There was even gossip that the king meant to repudiate the queen, pregnant as she was, and insist she enter a convent. There were even some who said the child was not the king’s — and that was why she was to be put away.

  William, never an ardent supporter of Elisabeth Wydeville, automatically discounted the more dramatic whispers flooding Westminster, and found he even admired the queen’s iron discipline since she appeared untroubled and serene in public despite the king’s odd behaviour; although there were rages, tears and tyranny in her private rooms, as the chamberlain well knew.

  There must be fire behind the smoke for the king to behave as he was doing; yes, something had gone wrong, badly wrong between the royal couple in Brugge, yet, so far, William had been unable to get the king to speak to him about the breach.

  A flash of gold caught William’s eye: Mathew Cuttifer was bowing, deeply, ever more deeply, as he approached the king’s dais, sweeping off his flat velvet cap lavishly piped with gold chord and hung with ornate gold tassles. Dangerous to wear such an opulent hat in front of the king. Perhaps it would remind Edward that his merchants were prospering a little too much — at his expense?

  ‘Sir Mathew. You are well?’

  The king’s tone was neutral, detached, but William saw the merchant’s nervousness. He had a certain fellow feeling for the man; he’d not have wanted to be the first to talk to Edward on this delicate matter of tax relief especially since the king, after Anne had tried to escape him the first time more than a year ago, rightly blamed Mathew’s interference for the difficulties which resulted. Relations between the king and Sir Mathew had never been the same: it was the chief reason the mercer had not ventured to Brugge for the wedding.

  ‘I am, Your Majesty. Very well.’ The merchant spoke confidently, though he hid shaking hands in his wide sleeves; there was a moment’s silence which the king allowed to hang. Mathew, though his breath smoked in the cold air of the frigid Presence chamber, felt sweat slip down his sides and he had a terrible urge to cough; his throat was dry as sand from nerves.

  Yet now the king was gazing out of the windows, seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was conducting an audience. Mathew glanced beseechingly at the chamberlain.

  Hastings coughed loudly and the king, startled, looked around confused. Now it was William’s turn to sweat; was the king becoming distracted? Dread squeezed his heart. Suppose this king should begin to suffer the same strangeness which had gripped the previous king, Henry VI? They were cousins, not so different in blood. Let it not be so, please God, let it not be so, for all their sakes.

  ‘Very well, William. Where is this petition you wish to present, Sir Mathew?’ Mathew Cuttifer bowed soundlessly to Edward and from within the capacious sleeve of his houpelande, the standard court-dress of a generation older than the king, withdrew a scroll.

  Bowing as he advanced, he stepped up the three shallow treads of the dais and placed the scroll across Edward’s knees. Then, with anxious care, he slowly backed down the steps again, dreading that he would trip in the long skirts of his heavy velvet gown.

  There was no disaster, although his breath was ragged as he found his place, once more, before the dais — a fact observed by William Hastings. Yes, he had some sympathy for Mathew Cuttifer. In the king’s current state, anything was possible.

  The king frowned. ‘You are the first of many to present documents such as these, I understand?’ Mathew was uncertain how to reply, so he said nothing, merely nodding his head respectfully.

  The king’s hand shook as he unfurled the scroll; it would have been good to scream, to bellow abuse at the hapless merchant just to relieve the tension he felt, but Edward restrained himself, although his eyes glittered strangely. This was frightening enough for everyone in the room to shift uneasily in their place. Suddenly the air felt charged, thunderous.

  ‘Why do none of you understand what I was trying to do?’ The king was dangerously quiet, almost whispering. Mathew flinched, as if from a blow, when the next words were addressed to him directly.

  ‘How can you not see that money makes money, you of all people? Trade!’ Finally the king did bellow, ‘Trade, you fool. You helped vote me the aid to defray the wedding costs. Now we have stronger links with Burgundy; that will bring more trade so you all become richer! But what thanks is there in this for me? Only demands!’

  Plantagenet rage had been famous for three hundred years and Edward, once truly roused, lost nothing in comparison with the legends.

  Brave man that he was, William Hastings found himself trembling at the sight of Edward IV as berserk as he’d ever been in battle. Mathew Cuttifer, no warrior, felt as if he were going to faint or wet himself.

  ‘I will not do this! Never! Do you hear me! And I shall have the needle monopoly back if you persist! Tell them that, Master Cuttifer, your greedy city compatriots. Tell them that. What I gave I can take back.’

  The noise chased itself around the vast room and dissolved into ringing silence.

  Abruptly the king waved his hand. The audience was over, but not before Edward took the petition and in one swooping movement, ripped it from top to bottom, throwing the two halves with their dangling, dependent wax seals onto the flags in front of the now kneeling merchant. Many of them shattered into little, jagged red shards.

  Trying to hide the trembling of his hands, Mathew Cuttifer shuffled the pieces of the petition together, leaving the bits of wax where they lay, and backed away from the king towards the now-open door of the Presence chamber more rapidly than he would have thought possible.

  ‘No. You!’ The merchant froze and surreptitiously looked around for William. Whom did the king mean?

  ‘Yes, Sir Mathew, I meant you. Lady Anne de Bohun — have you heard anything?’

  There it was again, something like a tear in the corner of the king’s eye. Mathew’s mouth closed with a snap; it was either that or let it drop open in astonishment for he’d not seen what William had, earlier. Quickly, the merchant found his wits, but he shook his head heavily.

  ‘Sire, all my interests in Brugge and farther afield are working to find information, any information at all. So far ...’

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The king nodded, went on in a dull voice.

  ‘Father Giorgio, your Father Giorgio,’ Mathew was uncertain if he liked the king calling the man ‘his’ priest, ‘sent me news from Sluis. Around the time the Lady Anne disappeared, a ship left port before she was due to; the captain is a notable flesh peddler. There was some suggestion that a woman had been delivered, bound, the night before. No port we trade with has reported seeing the ship, the Maid of Kiel, in the last month, so until we have the captain in our hands, there’s no way of knowing if it was the Lady Anne.’

  Flesh peddlers. Mathew shivered, said nothing. If it was true, they would never see Anne again.

  Hastings cleared his throat and the king waved his dismissal.

  Mathew bowed deeply, spoke bravely. ‘We will find her, Liege. She’s a strong girl. Very capable. And I will redouble my efforts. We must find the ship. We will find it!’

  William hurried the merchant out of the chamber as fast as he decently could. He was even more worried than Mathew, if that was possible, since the king said nothing more, anger shading into grief all too visibly before their eyes.

  There were other petitioners outside in the ante-room, but they’d all heard the king’s rage earlier, and were only too happy to be dismissed, as was Mathew.

  William waited until the subdued little knot of men had been seen from the ante-room and then, clearing the Presence chamber of guards and functionaries, he rejoined the king, alone.

  ‘You know, I wanted to bring her back here; revoke the exile, have her near me. But she never arrived, that last night, when we were supposed to meet. I spoke to that fool of a bishop in Brugge.
’ William heard the king’s teeth grind together. ‘Witchcraft! The witterings of a servant, that was all! But she vanished. And I still don’t know the connection, if there’s a connection. No one can tell me what happened. No one!’

  William was relieved by the anger, if confused. Witchcraft? Bishops? Connections to what? At least the king was talking at last — that was something — but what, by the bones of God, had happened? They must resolve this mess, for the good of the kingdom, but for a boil to be lanced it had to come to a head. He needed facts, just as the king did.

  ‘Your Majesty, we have the means to find her. I promise you. I will scour Europe if you need me to, but you must trust me with the truth, all of it.’

  There was some pain in William’s voice. He was truly close to Edward, or so he thought. Why had the king not told him earlier? And, why had he not heard of this fiasco earlier? His normally reliable network of intelligence had let him down badly this time, and someone would pay for that lapse.

  Edward shrugged wearily. ‘I was relying on the duke. Brugge is his city. He set himself to find her, any trace of her, but he’s distracted by the French, it seems. Father Giorgio, now, at least he’s found something definite, and continues to work on my behalf.’

  Sometimes William forgot that Edward was a young man still, with a young man’s passions. William envied the king. He’d never felt as deeply for a woman as Edward so plainly did for Anne. He and Edward had been so alike once, both sexual predators, but something had changed for Edward, something which filled his chamberlain with deep unease.

  Not for nothing did the Greeks call love a curse — a curse which destroyed reason. Yet Edward had a country to think of, not just a girl. A woman could not be allowed to disturb the peace of the kingdom and disable its king.

  Yes, she must be found, and, if necessary, she might need to be destroyed before the king was informed. For the good of them all.