The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  He never cried, he never cried, not in all the battles, all the wars, but to say the words, as he pulled her against his chest, was agony and the salt of his tears was a blessing.

  She whispered, ‘I thought I would never see you again, never see our son again.’ It was the staunching of a wound for both of them.

  ‘Or I you.’ Pain like madness, the memories, for both of them. Now he was kissing her, kissing her mouth as she clung to him and he to her as if they were both drowning.

  ‘But fate sent you back to me.’ She heard the words, but they made no sense. She found herself laughing and, absurdly, he was laughing too, great whoops, his whole body shaking with it, as was hers.

  Then, gently, subsiding into choked sobs, she wiped his tears away — tears of loss, tears of longing, tears of joy, heedless of her own.

  ‘Edward, bide with me here.’ She sank down onto the floor, because her legs would not hold her any longer, onto the rug that lay before the fire, a rug made from silk, very soft and variously coloured.

  He joined her there and the two sat cuddled against one another, looking into the flames. Like children. She was the first to break the silence between them, the silence that comes after tears.

  ‘Oh, King, I will ask you three questions and you must answer, for I command it.’ Anne’s voice was very soft and low.

  ‘The first is this. What would you wish for, if you could have anything in the world?’

  He looked at her quizzically. ‘You know what I want, you’ve known since we first met.’

  Anne closed her eyes and leaned her head into his shoulder. When she answered it was a whisper, almost a prayer. ‘Great King, I cannot give my life to you. And you cannot give yours to me. No,’ he had tried to protest, but she kissed his mouth sweetly, deeply, stopping the words, ‘but there are other things. Valuable things that you may have. Some have called me a sorceress, even a witch. And I may have some little power to grant other requests,’ she kissed him again, ‘but only a little.’

  Edward laughed as his arms tightened around her. ‘You? A witch? I do not believe in such things. I only believe in you. And you are a mortal woman,’ he was breathing faster, ‘but I should like my wishes granted, lady.’

  That breathy whisper came again. ‘There are two more questions liege, before I do.’

  He was turning her face towards him with one hand, seeking her mouth; gently pushing her backwards, down onto the rug so that soon he lay beside her, holding her body so tight to his that she spoke into the base of his throat, the words shivering through him, down into his belly.

  ‘Edward, this is my next question. Do you want to be king?’

  He spoke without thinking. ‘No. Not if I cannot have you.’ Words from the heart. He groaned. It was the truth. ‘I cannot bear this, to lose you again.’ She could hardly breathe, pinioned against his chest.

  ‘There is one more question, Edward, and you must let me ask it.’

  Suddenly he rolled, flipping Anne onto his belly so that she straddled him, the red hunting dress, so crushed, so mud-spattered, riding up her thighs. He lay looking up at her. Her face was in shadow, though the warm glow rimmed the shape of her body in rosy light, finding an answering glimmer in the ruined scarlet velvet.

  ‘Ask me, then. Whether I can answer you ...’ He trailed away into silence as his hands slid down her back looking for the point where the laces of her dress were tied.

  Anne was not indifferent, she wanted this man as much as he wanted her. She could feel him. He was hard, only the soft leather of his riding britches between them.

  ‘What will you sacrifice so that your children, all your children, can be safe?’

  He grimaced and his hands paused for a moment. ‘I do not know the answer to that question.’

  ‘I do.’ Briefly she turned her head and he saw the tracks of fresh tears. Her sorrow tore at his heart.

  ‘We can be together, Anne. We will be together.’

  This was Edward Plantagenet now. Not asking. Demanding. ‘I am the king of this country and you are my subject. So, too, is the queen.’

  The fire flamed up and sparks flew into the room blown by a cold wind down the chimney. It was as if Elisabeth Wydeville was in the room with them.

  ‘Edward, nothing has changed. Twice in my life I’ve broken faith with myself. My love for you has been the cause each time. But there is too much danger — for all of us.’

  It was true, they both knew it, but Edward was not listening now; his hands were too busy, impatience building as he eased the tight lacing of the back of her dress apart. She closed her eyes as she felt the first touch of those strong, bone-hard fingers on the soft naked skin of her back.

  They were silent together for a moment, just a moment, then she stopped his hands, found the laces herself, breathing as fast as he was. ‘You make me shameless.’ She laughed a little tremulously as she found and pulled the last lacing-cord loose and the bodice of the dress dropped from her shoulders exposing her breasts.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ Edward’s voice was husky and his mouth dry from desire as, slowly, caressingly, his eyes roamed her body, the architecture of her shoulders, her breasts, as the fire light found sumptuous shadows, delicate tendrils of hair, the whorl of an ear as she turned her head to look into his eyes.

  He did not touch her, waiting; he would not make the first move now. She must agree freely to what they would do together.

  ‘Help me, Anne.’ It was a husky plea for deliverance.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed one word in reply as she gathered the material of the riding habit and eased it off completely, over her head.

  She was naked now, straddling his lap. He groaned as she leaned towards him teasingly, allowing her breasts to touch his chest through his muslin shirt.

  He shivered, aching to touch her, but restrained himself as she pulled the soft material from the points on his britches, so slowly, one by one.

  Then his chest was naked and she leaned forward to kiss the base of his pulsing throat. He could bear it no longer; roughly he pulled her to him, skin to skin as his fingers fumbled between them, tearing at the lacing of his riding breeches.

  ‘Take me in to you,’ he spoke into her mouth as she kissed him, deeper, deeper, gently moving her hips against his, sliding against him as he freed himself from the soft buckskin.

  Breathing as one, slowly, so exquisitely, she straddled him for one unbearable moment and then sank her body over his, so that her weight pushed him high inside her belly. Holding his breath, allowing himself to be encompassed, they both gasped with that first deep sense of his heat inside her body; she embracing him as he held her, breasts flattened against his chest. And then she began to move.

  They were both silent because the alternative was to scream, but as she knelt, parted thighs on either side of him, moving slowly at first then faster and faster — sliding on him, whimpering, mewing — he cupped his palms beneath her soft buttocks, guiding her, half sitting to hold her tighter to him so that he could take himself ever deeper into her belly. He wanted her, wanted every particle of her slick, soft body, breasts and belly and legs and ...

  He had her on her back now, so fast she did not feel him move until he lay on top of her, his weight pinning her as now he moved faster, faster, and deeper, deeper and harder ... and she felt helpless, boneless, open ...

  ‘I am hungry, therefore feed me.’ She said it to his chest, but he heard it in his groin. He growled deeply, breath more and more ragged, and the bliss, the hot, slick almost-pain building and building between them — their own fire, greater than the oak wood burning to ash in the fireplace behind them — that it had to end, must end.

  ‘Aaaaaah.’ Now it was a scream, a scream that built from the pit of her belly, from between her legs where he filled her and forced her ever more deeply open, and travelled from her chest to her mouth where he ate it with a savage kiss as the sweet explosion took them both and he collapsed onto her, holding her, holding her, holding her
.

  He would think about tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  Chapter Sixty

  The little boy woke in his new bed — the bed that the duke had caused to be made for him alone. It was a good bed, this one, painted dark green with horses drawn on it, and curling tendrils with leaves and red apples amongst the horses. He liked the bed, liked waking up in it.

  This morning, however, was different, and for the very good reason that he awoke to kisses, and tears: that was what woke him, salt water falling onto his face.

  He was awake properly now and so happy, here was Wissy, back again! He was clinging to her now and she smelt so good, like flowers. She held him fiercely tight against her body, feeling his small heart beating.

  ‘Hello, my darling. Oh, my lamb.’

  She looked up from her son’s embrace at the people she loved, the king, Deborah, even Richard, all watching as she was reunited with her son.

  The duke, standing beside his brother the king, was amazed. See the three of them together, Anne, little Edward, and the king, and you would never, ever mistake them for anything but mother, son and father.

  Pain and happiness. Such a potent combination.

  Anne looked at the king. ‘Time to go home, Your Majesty, time for us to journey south.’ She smiled with her mouth, though it did not reach her eyes.

  The little boy touched the wet which came from his aunt’s eyes, and tasted it. Salt. He giggled, and she laughed, she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Edward, the king has brought you a present. Haven’t you, sire?’

  Somewhat helplessly, she turned to the king, eyes appealing for help.

  ‘Yes, it’s very special.’ Edward smiled cheerfully at his son as he strode over to the little boy’s bed, though his chest ached as if from a blow.

  The little boy was very excited. People kept giving him presents these days, that was one of the good things about being here in Duke Richard’s castle — but not as good as being at home, of course.

  Edward revealed what he’d been concealing: a small wooden dagger in its own embroidered doeskin scabbard.

  ‘You liked my dagger, so I had a copy made for you from ebony. It’s just the right size for you and see,’ he lifted the little boy from Anne’s lap and stood him on a stool, so that the two of them were nearer in height, ‘it has its own belt. You must look after it very well, keep the blade well oiled.’

  The little boy’s eyes were saucer-large as the king buckled the belt, with its knife and keeper, over the child’s nightdress.

  ‘Do you like it, Edward?’ Richard smiled as he asked the question — but his nephew was speechless as, very carefully he withdrew the knife from its scabbard, one stubby little finger gently tracing the delicate carving on the blade.

  Anne smiled at her small son, standing so proudly on the stool in front of them all. She caught Deborah’s eye — they had not yet spoken and there was much to say and tell between them, but not now.

  ‘So now, perhaps Deborah can dress you, for there is much to do and we have little time.’

  Anne was practical now, useful camouflage for inner turmoil that she could only just control. But the boy was not listening, jigging up and down, waving his own little dagger, flourishing it!

  Over the head of the dancing child, as Deborah tried to scoop him up to be dressed in the garderobe, Anne and Edward gazed at each other, glance locked to glance, then, after one long moment Anne broke the silence between them as their son bellowed with outrage, being washed by Deborah in cold water.

  ‘My liege, I thank you and your brother the duke for everything that you have done to reunite us all.’ The words had levels of meaning known only to Edward and herself, but Anne curtsied formally to Edward, subject to king, and then to Richard, who bowed in return, from the waist, equal to equal. ‘Lord Duke, I gratefully accept your kind offer of an escort for we must be away home.’

  Edward found it hard to speak. ‘Would you break your fast here, before you leave?’

  Anne sighed. And shook her head.

  ‘We will breakfast on the road. Fair weather does not last long at this season.’

  There was a catch in her voice as she said it. It was a bright, blue day today outside, and the freeze last night would have set the roads better than they had been for many days. But that would not last and the ways would again be deep and treacherous before the journey was done — for all of them.

  He stood on the battlements and watched the party of his soldiers surrounding the two women and the boy, leave.

  He had given her the best: Walter was with her, and Geoffrey Luttrell. They were well armed and well provided for, and Anne was riding the little mare the earl had given her on the hunt. It was a measure of the horse’s quality that one night’s rest and good barley and bran mash had restored her well enough for the long journey south, the journey that would take Anne away from him, out of his life. But she was alive, at least she was alive.

  Richard silently joined his brother and waved to the girl below. She waved in return, once, then turned her face, turned her back, riding beside her son and Deborah, into the future.

  ‘She’s doing the right thing, Edward. You need to let her go. We know who she is, others will in time. Warwick.’ He fell silent. The stakes would be heightened far too much if Warwick ever found out that the girl he’d let slip through his fingers was a daughter of the old king.

  Edward said nothing. An iron band was clamped around his chest, an iron band which would not let him speak, for if he tried, he would howl like an animal.

  Something moved in his hand, moved within one clenched fist; it felt like a trapped insect, scrabbling at his palm. He was startled and, distracted momentarily, uncurling the fingers; he was holding the ruby, the ruby Anne had given him. He shook his head, puzzled — he must have imagined the movement and yet, there was a scratch on his palm, blood welling where one sharp edge of the gem must have cut him slightly.

  He willed the distraction away, gazing down the road below as the group slowly retreated into the rags of morning mist. He closed his burning eyes, determined to imprint the image of the girl riding away from him on his mind, for all time, whilst he lived.

  Her words of this morning, as she mounted the mare and held out her hand to touch his face, covertly, one last time, came back like a sigh. ‘You gave me a ruby once. This is mine now to give to you. It is my love, and my blood. And my blood is yours.’

  It was then she gave him the stone.

  Blood. His heart’s-blood, on her ruby. He looked down at it again, startled, and when he glanced up again, the party of horses was nearly too far away for even his famous long sight to make her out, buried amongst the forest of male bodies around her horse, and the mist.

  But Anne did look back, one last time, though he did not see it. She saw the two men standing on the battlements, saw his cloak flying out behind him emblazoned with the leopards and the lilies — the leopards and the lilies which belonged to him, and to her, as emblems of the country that was jointly theirs by right — and was jolted by fear when she saw the figure who now stood behind them.

  A woman with wild, tangled red hair and a gold torque gleaming at her throat in the pale morning light, thick bands of gold on each of her muscular arms. Silently the Sword Mother raised her arm, her shield arm, and spread it wide. In her other hand there was a sword, this too she held out, high above her head, and shook it, once, twice, three times.

  And Anne lost her fear for she saw the Sword Mother stood between the two men now, arms spread wide, encompassing them: she was protecting them — Edward and Richard — but they gave no sign of knowing she was there, too intent on watching Anne ride away with her son, and Deborah.

  Anne turned her head away and set her face for home and Brugge. She would not turn back, it was not her right, but for days after, as the jolting miles to Dover were consumed on good roads and bad, as the sun rose and set, she dwelt on that last image, the Goddess protecting the king and his brother. She had
been given this one last comforting vision; it was hers to cherish.

  The presence of the Sword Mother said battle was yet to come, but all might still be well for she would be there. Would Anne?

  Epilogue

  The scar on Anne’s throat from Henry Hardwell’s knife had faded to a white line by spring of the following year and the bad dreams of pursuit, of blood, had nearly stopped.

  In Brugge, happy people flung open their windows — it was warmer, assuredly it was a warm wind! Summer, surely they could smell summer coming?

  Anne could feel the season changing too — the casement open to the heber allowed a flood of perfume from the blossom on the plum apple trees into Mathew Cuttifer’s parlour in the house near the Kruisport, and she could feel her heart lifting at last.

  ‘Careful! Oh, gently now!’ Deborah was terrified; she was doing her best to supervise Ivan and Maxim. The steward refused help from anyone else in taking down Hans Memlinc’s master work from its place on the wall.

  Anne watched herself descending from the wall, watched Saint George — and remembering Edward, their last time together — saw the dragon freshly, so real it seemed to squirm within the frame. Did its glittering scales, its insatiable mouth remind her of the queen, her enemy? She smiled ruefully. ‘Foolishness!’ she could hear Edward say it, ‘Superstitious nonsense!’

  ‘There! Now ... careful Ivan! You nearly dropped it!’ Anne had to turn away, she’d nearly laughed out loud through the pain, which would not have helped. Pain to leave, pain to stay. Change, radical change, burned away the dross. Perhaps she would be at peace, later.

  ‘Deborah, where’s Edward?’ Her foster-mother, distracted, nodded to the heber as the two men, red-faced with the effort, lowered the huge painting with muscle-burning effort into its specially made case packed with loose wool. There! It would travel safely now.

  ‘I think I’ll just ...’ Anne couldn’t bear watch them pack up the rest of her things. She slipped out of the room into the tiled hall and hurried through the dark passage, unlatching the door that led out into the scented, walled garden.