The Exiled (11 page)

And the baby, the happy Christ child, still gave hints of strength, even majesty, in the blessing of that raised hand, confidently signing the cross over Anne as she knelt at his feet.

But it was in Anne’s face and Saint George’s face that the greatness of the work was most strikingly displayed. The sheer technical accomplishment — the luminance of the flesh, the solidity of the figures, the pleasing balance of the shapes, the remarkable depth of the world they inhabited — was far outweighed by the natural power of these two painted faces. It was as if Hans Memlinc had dipped his brush in truth and laid it out on his canvas — and the personal qualities he’d found in each of his subject’s faces sent Father Giorgio’s scalp into a prickle of strangeness.

Hans Memlinc had painted strength and purpose into Anne’s eyes, and charm also. It was not a look he saw often from the girl herself, like many women she was careful to keep her eyes down in public so that she would not cause offence by glancing directly into a man’s eyes — but in unguarded moments he had seen it. Sometimes those green-blue eyes were a sword in her service — a glance that said, ‘Be careful of what I could be if you cross me.’

Yet her mouth contradicted the eyes. It was certainly sensual — deeply, softly clear red, the same red as her scarlet dress — and yet so yielding, so soft; slightly open with a hint of the white teeth beneath as the short upper lip lifted in an awed, tender smile for the baby Christ. The pure mouth of a child who was not yet a woman. An innocent mouth.

Giorgio was not a man to linger over the qualities of a woman’s mouth, but he understood the vulnerable sensuality of it in this painting.

And Saint George — now there was a face. The nose was long and fine, the planes of the face clear and well modelled within the shadow of the helm. But again, the eyes — peering out of the shadow, flecked with light as if they burned — were blue stars, glittering with the edge of a honed and wicked knife. There was no quarter in that face, no pity, but there was a powerful sense that the knight was there to protect the kneeling woman, and the child, as if this was the only task God had ever given him. And the blood pouring in ruddy, graceful coils from the dragon’s neck was witness to that fact. And the two faces, his and hers, were oddly alike. They might almost have been male and female versions of the same person.

Sir Mathew interrupted the friar’s reverie. ‘And so, Father Giorgio, tell us. Is this not as fine as any work you might see in Florence or Rome?’

Gracefully, the priest bowed. ‘Indeed, sir, I am delighted and surprised to say that it is. I have never been a scholar of your northern painters, but this Meinheer Memlinc could have a most promising career if he chose to work at any of the courts in Italy.’

Anne laughed. ‘But, Father, he’s so busy here in Brugge that he has no need to go elsewhere. He already
has
a great career.’ The friar blushed a little — sensitive that he had unwittingly patronised these people, which was not clever of him. ‘Ah, lady, I did not wish to give offence. I merely observe that all the great masters working today can find ready commissions from the noble families of my country — and the Vatican — after all. So much building, so much adornment in all forms, so many extraordinary men at work. We can all learn from the greatness of others.’

‘Amen to that, Father. Amen to that. And now, it is our pleasure to learn from you. Since we have the attention of Sir Mathew and Lady Margaret, perhaps you and I should tell them of some of the wonderful things you have brought to us from your travels. What the ladies are currently wearing in Florence, for instance; this new fashion for flowers embroidered in precious stones on gauze overdresses for the warmer months? That will translate here. I believe we should have some made up to sell for the Lady Margaret’s wedding.’

Mathew looked at Anne speculatively. There was a new, confident tone in her voice; she was nervous, but she spoke as he would have, like a merchant who saw an opening in the market.

Friar Giorgio clapped his hands for Jenna — the girl had been waiting outside the parlour in case she should be needed — and sent her to bring the saddle bags from his room. He had many things to show his new business partners, things that could be made and sold in the next few months as excitement mounted in the town of Brugge ahead of the royal wedding; things which would deliver a great deal of money to the new joint venture between Mathew Cuttifer and Anne de Bohun — if the cargoes from Venice and Florence were landed in time; if they survived the spring gales; if the Guild allowed them to be sold.

And if none of these things happened, Anne would be ruined.

A
nne woke with a start in the dead middle of the night — before even cockerels called out dawn to the sleeping city.

She sat up in bed, hugging her knees, shivering, feeling sick. Bad dreams had pursued her after Edward’s birth, but she’d thought that time was past.

Perhaps it was the imminence of the marriage — the marriage of Edward’s sister — that was stirring up the emotional mud in her life once more. She still felt guilty about Elisabeth Wydeville — that she’d allowed the king, the man Elisabeth had married, to seduce her. Guilty, yes, but not regretful. If she was honest.

Thoughts of Edward always made Anne’s heart lurch, even now; therefore, how could she go back to sleep? Quickly she pulled the fur coverlet from the bed around her shoulders and slipped out of her warm sheets, over to the window which looked down to the canal.

The winter ice was long gone and the canal was placid in the light of the setting moon. It was the still time of night — the hush before the world woke and stretched. The air felt different and suddenly Anne realised why — she wasn’t cold.

Anne pushed one of the heavy, leaded casements open, and leant out into the soft air as far as she could. Spring! The air smelt of earth and green leaves after rain. The year had turned away from winter at last and summer was truly close.

What would the Lady Margaret be feeling in London now? Was she happy for this marriage?

And when she came to Brugge, would Duke Charles be patient with his new bride? He’d had three previous wives so he must be well experienced with the handling of highly bred young women. The Lady Margaret would also become stepmother to Mary of Burgundy, sole heir of her father, the duke. How would that be, to find yourself a bride and a mother in the same moment?

The sky was lightening in the east now — the air flushed with pink and a pearl-like glimmer deepening to incandescent silver as the sun began to rise. Slowly, colour travelled through the world beneath her window — the bricks of the house turned rose and madder, and the new leaves showed brilliant green with the light behind them. Green and silver! That is what she would wear today, to salute the change of season!

Suddenly Anne was happy, happier than she’d been for months.

There was so much to look forward to, for she’d heard yesterday that the impossible was nearly accomplished — the goods that had been bought for her in Italy would be safely landed at Sluis this morning. Hurriedly she crossed herself at the thought. It was pride to believe something before the reality existed — please let her not be punished for it! But it
was
true — the
Lady Margaret
and another ship that Maxim had found in Venice had been sighted down the coast last evening and messages had been brought to her on horseback. They
would
dock this morning — God willing — ahead of any that the more timid merchants of Brugge had sent once they’d heard Mathew had committed the house of Cuttifer and its resources to Anne’s venture.

Their boldness had made enemies for them, no doubt about it, and Mathew had been very worried indeed. He’d tried his best, so had Lady Margaret, to persuade Anne to accompany them home to London — he was certain Anne’s formal exile from the court could be bribed away — but his ward had refused. For her own good reasons; she wanted to meet Edward again, if meet him she did, on her own terms.

In the end, with many cautions and yet more security added to his house in Brugge, Mathew had been talked around and agreed to let her stay. Secretly he was proud of Anne, proud of her courage and her spirit, as was Lady Margaret. Mathew’s wife had far fewer fears for Anne than her husband did and, in the end, her support and endorsement of the girl’s practical good sense had won Mathew around. He’d agreed to go, just as he’d planned.

Stretching by the window, Anne laughed grimly when she thought of the drama of the months since Mathew’s departure as the English trading community faced up, reluctantly, to the unexpected competition offered by the house of Cuttifer. After scrambling to send joint orders for trade goods to the Italian city states, the so-called ‘Merchant Adventurers’ had waited until they’d collected a sizeable fleet and escort in Venice against the sea-pirates before they trusted what they’d bought to the spring gales.

Normally, of course, they would all have preferred to import their Italian goods much later in the season. Each year, the regular June fleet left the ports of Italy and the Levant in the early summer to bring luxury goods to Europe, thus they worried deeply before hazarding expensive goods on the seas so early, but, finally, Anne’s bold example had shamed them into trying. But now she’d beaten them home!

In a sudden ferment to begin the day, Anne hurried over to the door of the little chamber that adjoined her own: Edward’s nursery, which Deborah shared with him.

Very quietly she pushed the door open to find her son regarding her steadily, wide awake — and sitting up! Her heart lurched; suddenly he looked much more like a little boy than a baby. Of course, as all fond young mothers, Anne had always been convinced that Edward was an unusually strong baby, and very advanced for his age; not much past six months. Let scoffers say what they liked, here was proof!

And the little boy was as delighted with his achievement as she was, for with a huge smile he held out his arms to be cuddled. One fluid movement and she had him clasped tight against her chest, his face nestled against her own as he nuzzled her with a delighted sloppy gurgle of baby laughter.

Then she plumped herself down beside his cradle and kissed his soft, sweet neck, making him squeal with delight. She loved the smell of him, the softness of his skin, the purity of his mouth and eyes.

‘You’ll spoil that child, Anne.’ Deborah was trying to be severe, but Anne knew that tone. Deborah loved this little boy just as much as she did and played with him as happily when she thought no one saw them.

It was most unusual for Deborah to wake after Anne, but she’d been superintending the cleaning of the house for some days so that it was fit to receive whoever Anne’s guests would be as the royal marriage approached, and every one of her muscles ached.

She’d driven the staff and herself hard, so that every corner of Mathew Cuttifer’s handsome house was properly scoured with hot water, finely ground cold ash from the fires and good fat soap she’d made herself. The windows had been polished with vinegar and three-day-old urine until they winked and flashed in the pale spring sunlight, and the expensive collection of silver chargers in the hall, and the pewter vessels in the kitchen, had been carefully buffed with a paste of the finest river sand, pounded hard in a pestle to make it finer still, before it was mixed with alum and more vinegar.

All the room hangings, had been beaten outside in the heber, the linen in the bedrooms boiled and blanched and hung out over the budding hedges in the kitchen garden — just coming into leaf — to dry in the last of the blustery weather; and the fine Turkish carpets were scattered with dampened sawdust before being vigorously shaken and beaten in their turn and hung back up on the walls.

Now the whole house smelled sweetly of beeswax polish and the fresh spring flowers placed in all the public rooms, and Deborah had gone to bed the previous night with a satisfied feeling that much had been accomplished. This house, their home until Anne could afford another, was ready to face whatever chance might send their way.

Deborah struggled up out of her truckle bed — her bed was beside Edward’s little carved oak cradle — but Anne pressed her back against the bolster. ‘No, Deborah — I’ll find Jenna. She can help me. You rest, I know you’re tired. Come, Edward, let’s find your breakfast.’

Scooping the little boy up against her body, she wrapped them both more securely in the fur wrap and, talking quietly to Edward about all the excitements the day held for them both, walked quickly to the door of her room.

‘Ivan?’

‘Yes, lady, I am here.’

There’d been no more attempts to kidnap her, but perhaps that had been because of the added security Sir Mathew and Ivan had insisted upon. Now, when she went out in public, she was accompanied not just by Ivan but by two other men he’d selected as well, veterans of the ongoing conflicts between the city states in Italy. Besides, it did no harm to the credit and importance of the house that Anne now had her own men-at-arms. All three, dressed in Mathew’s livery and walking calmly beside her litter when she went out in public, signalled that the prosperity Mathew enjoyed was growing apace. But what none knew, outside a chosen few, was how much Anne’s circumstances were likely to change if the cargoes landed safely.

And, like a jewel that was enhanced by its setting, Anne’s beauty and desirability shone more brightly for the fact it was fenced around by good Spanish steel.

Ivan scrambled up from his palliasse and pushed it away from the door of Anne’s room as his mistress asked him to find Jenna. As he pulled up his hose and laced them to the points of his jerkin whilst hauling on his boots, he could hear Anne singing to the little boy, a low, breathy song which told how the wind, in spring, liked to chase the birds across the sky because they were both free and enjoyed the game. There was a haunting, wistful sweetness to the words and Ivan could understand, none better, how dear the thought of freedom must be to Anne on such a day as this. He could help her be free, would help her, if she needed him to. That was his job, but he liked her; it was his pleasure too ...