Fortune's Wheel

by Rhoda Edwards

  King Louis had given orders that the house in which he usually stayed in Paris, the Maison des Tournelles, should be prepared for his guests. The house was comfortable enough, for the King, who could make do with the meanest hut, also appreciated comforts, but it held the dampness of age, and was enclosed by high walls. Anne could see from the windows the city wall itself, and an enormous, very high bastion like a castle keep, which loomed and cast its shadow wherever she looked.

  Her surroundings conspired to make her even more miserable, and she caught a cold, which spoilt any enjoyment she might have got out of the Christmas season. Life in the entourage of Queen Margaret was more frightening than when they had been at King Louis’ court, and Anne trod very warily. The first time she was called to attend upon the Queen was the worst. Even handing a garment or a jewel to another lady made her feel all thumbs, and then she dropped the Queen’s rosary and the string broke and the beads rolled all over the floor, and one of the Pater Nosters went under a chest.

  Margaret looked at the beads, then at her, and shrugged. ‘Pas d’importe,’ she said, without venom, or even interest.

  When they had finished grovelling about and retrieved all fifty-six, Anne stood there shaking so hard that she imagined the floorboards squeaked under her. She felt as if she would be sick with fright, and tears clouded her sight and her nose felt hot and swollen, and that everyone must notice. Some of them did, but not in any way to reprimand.

  ‘You will not be eaten here, your Highness,’ one of them said afterwards. This was the Provençal one, Lady Vaux, whom Anne knew to be Queen Margaret’s dearest friend. Katherine Vaux had come to England with her when they were both sixteen.

  ‘Do not be afraid of her Grace the Queen. You must understand that things have not been easy for her. She came to England when she was almost as young as you, and she found no kindness there. The English always hate people or things that they do not know or understand. Madame still feels that your father is her enemy; twenty-five bitter years cannot be wiped out in one day. But don’t despair, things will be better later on, when affairs in England have been settled. You will get to know your husband better, too. Stand up straight and look the Queen in the face; if you shake and shiver in front of her, she will be annoyed.’

  But Anne remained uncomforted. She was desperately homesick for England. Nowhere seemed so far away now as Middleham Castle, remote and as unimaginably distant as the Indies. She even began to miss Isabel a little. At least a sister was a sister, and part of familiar life. When they had been younger, they had quarrelled often, but done many things together. On the Eve of St Agnes in January, once, she and Isabel had made dumb cakes in the nursery. If their mother had known, there would have been trouble, for Isabel who was five years older and should have known better, and for the servants as well as themselves, because their mother was afraid of country heathen customs. Anne had dreamed of no one at all that night, and Isabel had said this was because she had broken her silence while eating her cake with a fit of giggling and choking. Isabel swore that she had dreamed of someone tall, fair and handsome — the possibility of marriage with Clarence had been tacit even then. Anne could tell that she had made it up, and had probably slept as they both usually did, without dreaming. Isabel had said then that she was surprised Anne did not dream of her cousin Richard; she spent enough time making eyes at him. Anne had been furious, because she did not like her innermost feelings exposed by her sister’s silly teasing. The memory was hurtful now.

  Before they had left Paris for Rouen, her husband the Prince had demanded to visit one of the famous sights of the city, the gallows at Montfaucon, on which a hundred men could be hanged at once, and was never untenanted by their dangling bodies. He had even asked Anne if she wanted to go with him, but she had hastily declined. Her cousin Gloucester would not have done such things for pleasure, or been so stupid as to think she might want to also.

  8

  The Exiles

  January – March 1471

  Blessid be god in trinite,

  Fadir & son & holygoste,

  Which kepith his servauntes in adversite,

  & wold not suffre theyme to be loste.

  As thou art lord of mightes moste,

  Save the kyng & his ryalte,

  And illumyn hym with the holy goste,

  His relme to set in perfyt charite.

  The Battle of Northampton (c. 1460)

  8

  Richard stood in the Craene Plaetse by the Pont de la Grue, or in the Place de la Grue by the Craene Brugghe. He made himself learn every new name of a place or a thing in both French and Flemish. Bruges was a city of three languages — in order to do business with the merchants of a score of different nations, he had to string together sentences of bad Latin, which he found almost as difficult as Flemish.

  He looked up at the town crane. It stood idle because the day was a Sunday and the feast of St Sebastian; the treadwheel that worked the lifting gear was empty. All along the tall arm of the crane, outlined against the sky, stood little cranes — the birds — carved and gilded, and perched in a neat row, the biggest one surmounting the pulley at the top. Snow was heaped on their gold backs and piled in little crests on top of their heads, like ermine cloaks and hats.

  King Edward had just ordered a gown lined and collared with vast quantities of ermine and a hat to match, all at the expense of their host in Bruges, Louis of Gruuthuse, Lord of Holland. They lived in the Gruuthuse palace, ate the excellent Gruuthuse dinners, and used the Gruuthuse credit with every merchant. Their own, after all, was non-existent. A king without a kingdom, without much prospect of regaining it, and largely without the support of his brother-in-law the Duke of Burgundy, in whose lands he was exiled. A pension of 500 shillings a month, and one interview granted — Edward had to travel a hundred miles to Aire in Artois to receive the honour — scarcely amounted to a brotherly welcome.

  Because he had cold feet and cobbled boots, Richard moved away from the crane and onto the bridge. He was lucky enough to have a fur-lined coat on his back — thanks to Louis of Gruuthuse. He looked like a young man of a moderately prosperous merchant family and so went almost unnoticed in the streets. In Bruges only the dazzling and sumptuously arrayed merchant princes in the styles of many countries attracted attention. King Edward was stared at a good deal in the street, but that was more on account of his height and looks than any distinction of garb to show that he was the disinherited King of England. Surely some of the richest men in the world, proclaiming their status in their appearance, lived in Bruges. Richard had already, in the company of Edward, dined with several of them. There had been precious little gained by this apart from the meals. Duke Charles had so far forbidden his subjects to support Edward openly. Tommaso Portinari, the Florentine agent, had been favourably disposed but, as a member of Charles’ ducal council, had scarcely been in a position to act upon his own judgement.

  Richard’s own assets made him about as rich as a pedlar, but perhaps more hopeful of an upturn in fortune. In the house of Gruuthuse, they lived like princes, but went out into the street without so much as the price of their next meal. At Duke Charles’ court at Aire, he and Edward had been decked in the pick of Gruuthuse’s jewels, and spent enough on their gowns to keep a hundred Englishmen in Burgundy for a month, for at Duke Charles’ court one had to put appearances before everything. Now, no one knew of the holes in his shirt or mended outdoor boots, except his fellow exiles, who were in even worse straits.

  He had arrived in Zeeland last October owning nothing but the clothes he stood up in, a razor and a comb. When he had ridden to meet Edward at The Hague he had been obliged to borrow £3 2s 3d (he only remembered the exact sum because it was the first of his many debts) from the bailiff of the town of Veere in order to purchase a horse and achieve the journey without starvation. Mercifully, the news that Edward was safely in the north of Holland had reached him soon after their landing, though for the first few days he had not known whether his br
other were alive or dead. If it had not been for the friendly hospitality of Gruuthuse, they both might have ended in a debtors’ prison in Holland.

  He cleared a space with his gloved hand on the parapet of the bridge so that he might lean on it. The snow had a crust on it like a pie. There were long scoop marks where children had grabbed handfuls for snowballs. They were pelting each other now. He himself remembered snowballing without even bothering to wear gloves. He looked down at the frozen Reye, where skaters of all ages sped along as if they were being called by the worke clocke bell to their daily tasks, instead of being at feast-day pleasures. Children tiny enough to need a baby-walking frame on land were towed along at the skirts of older ones. Those without skates slid about and ruined their shoes on the ice.

  The Guild procession of St Sebastian was over, and the onlookers dispersed about the streets, for dinner or skating. Bruges was a city of processions, no feast day was complete without one.

  On the steps leading down to the ice, booths had been set up, selling hot ale and skates. Richard fished the last coin from his purse. The sight of all the people of Bruges enjoying themselves invited him to join them. He was alone, having wandered away from the procession, telling his servant to go home, and had nothing more to do until tomorrow. Doing nothing out here was better than doing nothing indoors. He had missed dinner at the Gruuthuse huis, but one could be well fed there at any time of day. He had skated on ponds and rivers since childhood, and knew he could get about on the ice, if not with the accomplished ease of these Flemish people. He did not want to think about the times when the castle moat at Middleham had frozen and he had fooled about with the other boys. England, in the raw, fierce north country winter…Warwick’s castle…the faces of friends who were now enemies.

  He put on the bone skates and started off in an easterly direction towards the next bridge. He was circling about, trying his skill before setting off, when a woman swooped across his path making him check and waver. She turned neatly and came back.

  ‘Pardon mijnheer!’

  He smiled politely, shook his head, and began to move, when he realized that he had seen her before. Her face lit with recognition also.

  ‘Goeden dach mijnheer!’ Then, ‘Ah! Inghelsche!’ she exclaimed, and halted gracefully at his side. He came to a less elegant standstill.

  ‘I am Vrouwe van den Watere, of the bookseller’s shop in the cloisters,’ she said in accented French, which he was at least able to understand. ‘You remember, mijnheer? A few days ago Seigneur Gruuthuse was showing the English king the products of my workshop…’ She began to move slowly, because she could see no sense in standing about on the ice. They skated along in unison.

  ‘Yes, madame,’ he said, ‘I do remember. He told us you were not only the owner of the shop but that some of the work was your own. Are there other women in Bruges as accomplished?’

  ‘Bruges is full of accomplished women,’ she smiled again. ‘My husband when he died left me a well-established business. I was a pupil of M. van Vrelant. I have been lucky.’

  She looked lucky. There was something about the calm, competent manner of her progress over the ice, and her smiling face, which proclaimed good fortune and a happy acceptance of God’s providence. She was wearing a gown of fine black wool cloth, pulled in by a wide red belt, the shirt folded back to show a red lining, and with fur at the wrists and high neck. He was not sure of her age; she was not old, but he did not think less than twenty-five. It was somehow a relief to meet someone whom he could recognize in this crowd of Brugeois hurrying past on skates, and who seemed happy to pass the time of day with him. She had evidently been equally happy to skate with only her servant for company. She greeted several people as they went along.

  When they reached the Pont St Jean, there was a stall with a woman making wafers. The smell of sizzling batter cooking between the hot irons mingled with spicy steam from mugs of hot ale also on sale. The frosty cold and liveliness of the skaters made certain the stalls did good trade. Richard was acutely aware that he had missed his dinner.

  ‘It smells good,’ Vrouwe van den Watere said, and smiled. Her nose and cheeks were becomingly pink. ‘I will eat.’

  With a sinking feeling Richard knew he was going to appear ill-mannered and allow a lady to buy her own food and drink. There was no point in pretending to hunt in his purse. It was empty and would remain so until he got back to the Gruuthuse huis.

  ‘I have no money,’ he said, and knew he was as red in the face as the woman cooking wafers.

  She looked at him, and smiled again. ‘But I have,’ she said. ‘We will eat.’

  She took coins from her purse and spoke to the vendors in Flemish. The hot wafers were eaten as they dropped from the irons the woman took out of the red coals. Richard took off his gloves, stuffed them in his belt and warmed his hands on the round belly of an earthenware mug of ale. There was cinnamon bark floating in it, and a clove. When the red hot iron had been thrust into the ale to heat it, it had hissed and steamed as if alive. The foot of the mug was indented like the edge of a pastry, indents which bore the marks of the potter’s fingers for ever.

  She ate up her wafers with quick appreciation, and drank her ale in sensible draughts, not in coy sips, as some woman would. ‘Goede!’ she said at almost every bite, and smiled often.

  Richard could have wolfed two dozen wafers without taking the edge off his appetite.

  ‘Will you dine with me at home, mijnheer? It is late, and I am hungry!’

  He nearly swallowed the clove and had to spit it out before saying yes. At home he would have wondered, in his rank and position, whether he should accept the invitation of ladies to dine. Here things were different. He was nobody, and this woman was used to dining her business clients and colleagues without expecting any comment upon her actions. She was so naturally friendly, perhaps she realized the English exiles were in no position to issue invitations themselves. Besides the offer of dinner was a stroke of luck. She was no more than ministering to a hungry Englishman.

  They skated back along the canals, moving fast now. When the canal went under the Waterhalle, they had to come up and walk along the Wolle Straete and go down again at the Zoutdyck.

  Vrouwe van den Watere lived in a good house facing the Dyver.

  ‘The house of the lord Gruuthuse is only a few minutes’ walk from here. You will not have far to go. My servants and apprentices are on holiday today and have been to Mass and now are out amusing themselves. Perhaps you would like to see my workshop — it is better to do so while it is empty. I can show you more of the work we do.’

  ‘I should like to do that, madame.’

  ‘But more, you would like to eat!’ she smiled widely again. She had one dimpled cheek. He always liked dimples; they seemed to make smiles contain more genuine amusement.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and had to laugh. She laughed with him and he began to feel much more at ease. The room in which they were to eat surprised him. It was furnished and hung with goods of a quality he would not expect to exceed in his own house — if he had one — indeed it was better than his own rooms at Westminster. He might see more opulence at Eltham or at Warwick Castle but would also feel more draughts and discomforts. And it was so clean. Floorboards of clean light wood, a cupboard on which handsome plate was set out and some single, unusual ornaments — a Turkish carpet in front of the cupboard, a vase of white pottery with a design in bronze and blue, holding a single peacock feather and a big platter of the same ware. A string of prayer beads hung on the wall, made of very delicately carved boxwood. The most unusual feature was that where there should have been a fireplace, there was a stove, a box-like thing with a glowing window, made of green patterned tiles. The warmth from it reached every corner of the room, even on a day of sharp January frost.

  The dinner served in the house lived up to its surroundings, being a combination of delicacies and solid Flemish food. It was amazing how much of it they managed to eat between them. She kept urging him to
have more, and he needed little encouragement.

  ‘You are generous, madame.’

  ‘Madame! No more madames. My name is Thonine. I do not have too much madameing among my friends.’

  He smiled. The beer was very good, cool and clean and sharp, quite different from English brews.

  ‘What do you call eels — anguilles?’ He asked over a dish of which he had eaten more than half. It was the best cooked version of a favourite dish.

  ‘Een paling. Eat more!’

  As they ate, she asked him questions. His name, for the first time. He hedged round this a little.

  ‘Richard van —?’ she looked inquiring, dipped a succulent piece of chicken in the salt.

  ‘Richard Gloucester.’ He wondered if she would realize now, and whether it would spoil the directness of her manner.

  ‘Is there not a Duke of Gloster in the English party — is he not the English King’s brother? Is this the same name? Do you serve him?’

  ‘Yes, I serve him.’ This let him off the hook. ‘The name is a town in England.’

  ‘Ah! I see. Eat some more. We have plenty here.’

  He did as she said.

  ‘Is my house as good as the English have in London?’

  ‘Better. You understand comfort in Bruges. The English like to show off gold and silver, but they do not bother about draughts and bugs.’

  ‘Bugs! I hope there are none in this house! Or fleas — I wage war on bugs and fleas. You are obviously a gentleman of good family, do the nobility in England go about scratching?’