Surreptitiously the abbot wiped the sweat from his upper lip. It was now a little before tierce, the third canonical hour of the day, and, if he moved fast, he could have this “dear brother in Christ” out of the priory by the time the bell tolled for prayers. “Since you have chosen your path, Brother, I support your decision. Here. These are for your journey to Paris, to help you on your way.” Like a magician, the abbot presented the monk with a saddlebag. “Food, coin money—not much, of course. Ours is a poor house.” He coughed. It had not been easy to decide how much to give—too much, and Agonistes might see the money as a bribe and, being mad, refuse to leave. Only a madman would have said what he did at the feast yesterday. “And there is a donkey also. Come with me, Brother, you must meet him, your new friend and faithful companion-to-be. He is a charming animal. And sturdy also.”
Relief made the abbot chatter, giddy as a society lady, as he swept the monk from his cell, yet Brother Agonistes strove not to judge the man’s venality. Perhaps, after all, it was on behalf of his brothers that the abbot cast his own “very dear brother, through our Savior” onto the pitiless road. The monk also knew that if he declined to leave, if he remained in Brugge, he would be forced to explain his accusations to the duchess. Agonistes yearned for peace, but his head ached and his vision clouded when he tried to understand what God truly wanted from him now. Surely, his usefulness to his brother, the king of France, would cease if Duchess Margaret recognized in him the wizened remains of the sinful Dr. Moss. That could not be within God’s plan, could it? Louis de Valois was a holy spear within the hand of the Lord, but perhaps he, sinner that he was, formed the tip of that spear—however unworthy his metal might be. No, on balance, it felt right to leave this pestilential city, this haunt of vice and sin, behind him. He had accomplished the task he’d been given; the monks here had told him that Anne de Bohun was even now in the hands of the Church’s justice. And though he was puzzled by the enthusiastic welcome the ex–king of England had received, at least he was now named and shamed as an adulterer. Yes, he had done his work.
Thus, even though the Feast of Saint Stephen had turned bitter with dark sleet and a cutting wind, Brother Agonistes set out patiently enough just as the midday bell chimed out from the belfry above the cloth hall in the Markt Square. Despite the cold, he was dressed in nothing but his own filthy robes and a patched winter cloak wound tight around his emaciated body. He had refused the last-minute offer of a fur-lined mantle from the abbot. His feet were blue-white in the same holed sandals he had made for himself, long ago. Because of his manifold sins, he was certain that new boots could not be in God’s plan for him, now or ever. Therefore, he would rejoice in the certainty that the journey to Paris would take many weary days and, during that time, be grateful for the opportunity to consider, and reconsider, all his faults and failings. Perhaps his current sufferings could be offered up to God in further expiation of all that he’d done in that other, worldly time at Westminster.
Almost immediately on setting out there was evidence that his surrender to the will of God was pleasing to the Savior: the donkey between his knees seemed suddenly certain of its mission in life. Where before it had ambled through the streets of Brugge, now it trotted busily out from beneath the battlements of the Kruispoort and onto the echoing wooden drawbridge that linked the city gate to the riverbank of the Zwijn, though Agonistes had not given the animal a direction of any kind. Reverently, the monk crossed himself. Surely God was good. He had sent him a donkey that knew the way to Paris.
Once free of the city, Brother Agonistes closed his eyes with confidence; prayer might warm his freezing fingers as he told off the beads on his rosary. As if to reassure him, the little donkey moved tirelessly ahead, along the road beside the river, its neat hooves clicking on the last stretch of cobbled roadway before the path reverted to winter-frozen mud.
They had a long, long way to go together.
At last they could see the battlements and towers in the distance and each man in the cold and hungry party allowed anticipation to create the mirage of a good meal and a warm bed. Perhaps there was even a willing woman in that bed as well. They picked up pace as fresh energy flowed into weary, freezing feet.
“So, Brugge it is for all of us, master mariner. Perhaps you’ll find news there of your wife.”
Leif paused for a moment, leaning on his long staff. Could he face this? What if there was no news of Anne? “I hope so, de Plassy. My wife has many friends in the city. As do I.”
The Frenchman turned to his companions and winked. “My friend, I am certain you do, married or not. And now, my boys, if we hurry, we’ll be within those walls long before last light. Plenty of time to find new friends and playmates. Brugge has always been kind to such as us.”
It was the best thing the men had heard since the scrape of the key in their prison-cell door, and they were all for it. Whoops and cheering swept the group in around a long bend in the road, and they saw the great gate of the Kruispoort in the distance.
Leif let them stride ahead for a moment as he pulled his hood down over his eyes. The mercenaries had become his friends and companions and were chattering happily as girls, despite the sleet driving into their faces. He trudged on to catch the party up, falling in beside Julian de Plassy. The Frenchman pointed into the distance.
“Here’s an encouraging prospect to put a little coin money in our pockets, captain. Just what we need.”
Coming toward them on the path was a skinny monk riding a donkey. He was wrapped to the eyes in a stained cloak and his head nodded in time with the short gait of his little mount.
Leif laughed. “Ever the optimist, de Plassy. Why would you bother to rob a monk?”
The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. “Ah well, they all lie, you know, clergy. They’re rich, every single one of them. They pretend to be the opposite just to fool us. See, this one has a saddlebag. A nice, fat new one.” At that moment, distantly, the noise of drums banged out from the city, and many voices rose together, cheering.
De Plassy raised his eyebrows at the Dane. “So… a little conversation starter for our new friend.”
The Frenchman strode ahead of the group and planted himself in the path of the donkey. Haltingly, he spoke with the little Flemish he had. “Your blessing, Brother. Today’s festivities—what do they honor?”
The donkey balked and stopped. The monk’s eyes opened as he stopped telling his beads. He scowled at the sight of the men crowding the path in front of him. “I do not speak your language, sir.” Unwittingly, he replied in English. Brother Agonistes’s frown deepened; it was an odd thing to do after speaking and thinking in French for so many years.
Leif was also perplexed that this emaciated and filthy man—no doubt extra holy because of such privations—spoke English. He called out, “I speak English, Father. Can you tell us what festival is taking place today in Brugge?”
The monk crossed himself before hawking phlegm and spitting. He just missed the seaman’s boots. “No honest celebration, certainly, though it is Saint Stephen’s day. The former king of the English has come to Brugge to see the duke. That is all I know. Let me pass.”
Julian de Plassy smiled. “Edward Plantagenet? Is that who you mean?” He exchanged a delighted glance with Leif.
The monk sniffed. “Yes. His evil deeds are his undoing, as all men will now soon see.”
The Frenchman signaled for his men to back away from around the donkey. Brugge was suddenly as precious as Jerusalem for what it contained, and far, far nearer. He would free the monk who had given them this good news.
Agonistes spoke up angrily, to mask fear. “Yes! Clear my path. I am about God’s work. For the salvation of your blackened souls, do not think to delay me.”
Julian bowed. “Do not be fearful, honored Father. We respect men of the cloth as we do our own mothers.”
He uttered the airy lie without shame and Leif coughed to avoid laughing. De Plassy’s men stepped back smartly from the crown of the
road to allow the monk on his way. Agonistes kicked the donkey in its flanks and the bony little animal lurched into its customary trot. Leif Molnar and Julian de Plassy wasted few moments watching the monk on his way. They strode out together toward the distant city, setting a brisk pace for their followers.
“Our luck is turning, my friend, I am certain of it. I must remind the English king of the service my men performed for him. He will be grateful—if one can ever count on the gratitude of kings.” He glanced at Leif. The Dane was gazing at the city also, but his face was somber. “Do not despair, Leif. Have courage. I feel your wife waits for you, somewhere very close. Believe me, when these feelings come to me, they are never wrong.”
Leif smiled but said nothing, and swung on down the road at a steady pace. His “wife.” If Edward was in the city, was she with him… or was she dead?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Anne needed a wash and to sleep, but she needed information even more.
By the light through one high window, she could tell that a night and a day and some of another night had passed, but with the exception of food she’d been given nothing else. Certainly no news, though she’d tried hard to get the guard to talk to her.
He was young, her guard, little more than a boy, but his fear was plain when he brought coarse bread and a porridge of barley and flaked stock-fish to his prisoner. He’d never met with a witch before and when Anne tried to thank him, the youth backed away, silently crossing himself as if the Devil himself had addressed him personally. Anne would have laughed at the memory, except it made her anxious. How could anyone look at her, a girl with tangled hair and, no doubt, a dirty face, wearing a slept-in dress, and think she was a servant of darkness? Surely selling your soul to the Devil should guarantee cleaner clothes, for a start!
Anne paced up and down, skirts swishing. It was time she took a hand in her own fate, instead of waiting for help that might not come. That thought squeezed her heart, but she banished it. She would not allow panic to cloud her judgment. It was just a matter of time. To calm herself she recited, almost like a prayer, the things she knew. Margaret and Charles of Burgundy were her friends, and she was in their castle. Margaret had gone to get help. Margaret would not desert her—she was certain of that fact. It was just taking a little longer than they’d both thought.
Also, Edward was somewhere in the city even now; she’d heard the clamor of the bells this morning at his entry. She’d tried to climb up to the one high window to see the procession, but even by putting the stool onto the seat of the cathedra and balancing on the very ends of her toes, it had been impossible to see out. But Edward would know of her situation by now. And Edward loved her. Yes, certainly, he would know where she was and was just waiting for the right time to…
She might be an optimist, but there was another voice in Anne’s head also, a companion born of fear and lack of sleep that she tried to ignore, tried not to hear. He won’t come, said that voice. He’s had what he needs of you. Once he’s with Charles, and making plans, why would he bother what happens to you or your son? He’s forgotten you already. Why wouldn’t he? He’s got a proper, legitimate boy of his own now, a real prince—
“No!”
The guard outside heard the girl shouting in the empty room. It gave him the creeps. Was she raising spirits in there, yelling like that? Unwillingly, he stepped a little closer to listen, but her voice had sunk to a whisper. What was she saying now?
“He’ll come. He’ll come. You’ll see.” Tears choked Anne’s throat. “And I’ll see you soon, too, my baby. Very soon…”
Women are such foolish creatures, said the voice in her head. Hoping, believing, where a man would have courage enough to face the truth. You have been deserted and will die here, Anne de Bohun. Alone. Duke Charles knows everything; he has prevented Margaret from coming back to you because she’s told him about the death of the bishop. He’s sent her away, to a convent, just as Odo said he would. And Agonistes is, even now, dropping poison for all to hear. Listen carefully. Can you hear? They are building your pyre in the Markt Square. The king of England and the duke of Burgundy must support the burning of witches. That is their duty.
“No! Get away from me. I will not hear you. I will not die here. They will never burn my body!”
The guard clapped his hands over his ears and marched away to the end of the passage, the farthest point of his post. He would not listen to the witch’s ravings any further. He was too frightened of who she was talking to.
Anne, in her cell, ran to the door and pounded upon the bare, unyielding wood. She had to have news! “Guard! I must speak with the duchess.”
But the guard was reciting the Pater Noster, fingers stuffed in his ears.
“I know you’re still there. I can hear you!” Anne shouted the words, but then she broke. “Answer me! Oh, please answer me. Have pity.” Anne slid down to the floor of her cell. Her prison was in an old and remote part of the palace, high up beneath the battlements. Did they mean to keep her here until she went mad, or died? Was that what the future held? Was that better than burning?
Tears fell before she could stop them. “Deborah. Can you see me? I can see you. And my baby. My little boy. Mummy’s watching over you, my darling. I’ll be home soon…”
You’ll never go home… your cause is lost and you are abandoned. You’ll never, ever see them again in this life…
And there, on the floor of her cell, terrified and alone, Anne cried herself to sleep like a child lost in the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The feast of welcome in the Prinsenhof finished very late and it was long after midnight before the king, Richard, and William Hastings returned to their opulent lodgings: the town palace of the sieur de Gruuthuse. Tomorrow would bring another long day of meetings, discussions, and wrangling, but at least real negotiations between Duke Charles and the English had begun.
It was there, in a luxurious suite of rooms on the second floor of Louis’s mansion beside the substantial Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk—such a handsome church with its recently completed Gate of Paradise portal—that Edward Plantagenet and his brother closed the door upon the world.
Their host had supplied his guests with fashionable new clothes to wear to the evening’s entertainment, however, the brothers had rejected the offer of servants to help them undress on their return. Now was the first moment they’d had to themselves since their ceremonial entrance into the city that morning.
“Thanks be to all the gods that are, brother. We’re alone!” Richard tore at the many tiny gold buttons of his tight court jerkin. His belly was distended from rich food and too much wine after many Spartan weeks. He felt bilious, but welcomed that unfamiliar feeling back into his life; it was a positive sign.
“Hush!” Edward flashed a glance at his brother. Kicking off his soft dress boots, he strode barefoot to the door and listened, even dropped his eye to the large keyhole. Richard giggled at the sight. The giggles ended in hiccups.
“What do you… hic… want to do now? Hic. Sorry.”
He looked so penitent that Edward strode back across the room, smiling, and ruffled Richard’s hair. It was easy to forget just how young the duke actually was. “Do? Nothing, until this house is properly asleep. I can still hear movement on the other side of the door.”
Richard shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. “You’re planning… hic… something, hic, aren’t you? Hic. Tell me. Hic. Sorry. Edward?”
The king ignored his brother as he stripped down to his undershirt and britches. Gone was the magnificent and heavily embroidered blue velvet jerkin with the trailing sleeves lined and cuffed in ermine, tossed onto the bed as if it were a thing without value. Gone, too, was the massive gold chain of interlinked “S”s that had lain around his shoulders; it landed on the fur-edged counterpane. The massive diadem that marked him as a king followed the collar in short order, slung through the air in a nicely judged arc that pitched it onto the pillow where his head would later lie. “Margar
et tells me that Anne is locked up and guarded, but otherwise well.” Edward grimaced as he said it; “well” was an inadequate term, under the circumstances.
Hurrying, he pulled a close-woven riding tunic over his head. Cut from a double layer of finest English broadcloth and dyed a deep forest green, it had been in his saddlebags when he’d ridden into Brugge this morning. It had survived much, having taken him warmly enough across half of England and Europe in these last long weeks. It would be his companion in further adventures, he was sure of that.
Richard caught something of Edward’s urgency. He shrugged out of the constricting jerkin at last and, shivering, looked around the vast room for the things they’d brought from Anne’s farm. “But Lady de Bohun is not being blamed for the bishop’s ‘disappearance,’ is she?”
Edward flung him a look as he pulled on long, supple riding boots. “No. Not as yet. Margaret has managed it well. She’s even fooled Charles.” The king frowned. Had she? More than once during the feast tonight, as talk turned to the missing Bishop Odo, Edward had caught Charles of Burgundy gazing at his wife with a certain detached calculation. Never forget the politics of pragmatism. The king shivered at the thought. His sister had the nerve of a seasoned gambler—and he hoped he did also—but each of them was just a piece on the chessboard of politics. Charles was very good at chess.
“What will happen to Anne, brother?”
Edward said nothing as he hauled on his boots until they molded to his calves. He had no certain answer.
“She cannot stay in Brugge,” the duke continued. “Things need to become a little calmer before she’ll be safe behind these walls again.”
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