The Exiled (20 page)

Outwardly Anne remained quite calm, though she could feel her heart thud unevenly as the blood boomed in her head. As Deborah and Jenna dressed her — in shimmering jewel-green satin, the colour of new love and new beginnings — stable boys took invitations to a select few friends and yes, even some of the English merchants, since the house, right on the canal, had an excellent view and many large windows.

Never had Brugge sounded and seemed more like a beehive than today. As Deborah wound ropes of pearls and emeralds around her throat, Anne stood in the open casements, sunshine flooding down as laughter and happy shouting from the town filled the air outside and inside the room.

This marriage was welcome, this princess most welcome. The trade worries of the last ten years were melting away — the future of Brugge was assured by this strong alliance. Let others worry about the rumours that the river was silting up — the Zwijn, which was the conduit of all the city’s wealth — today the times were pregnant with promise. New opportunities would flow from this marriage and Brugge would once more eclipse her rivals; good English Crowns and Angels passing from hand to hand would see to that.

There was a booming crash on the front door downstairs, so loud it was heard even here, upstairs in her own solar — guests! It had begun!

Within an hour, closer and closer to the midday-bell — around which time the bride and her new husband were expected to arrive — Mathew Cuttifer’s fine hall was filled with brilliantly dressed, happily anxious guests; there were even some of the English merchants, including the Caxtons. The household servants passed to and fro amongst Anne’s friends, her rivals and some of her enemies in the perfumed hall conveying food and wine and beer as Anne herself held court.

William Caxton caught Anne’s eye and bowed, sweeping off his flat velvet bonnet. Maud caught the movement from the other side of the room where she was standing with friends, other merchants wives, in rigid disapproval and envy of the opulent display all around them. She frowned; her husband was fond, much too fond, of this trollop. She’d have to rescue him from his own partiality.

Too late! William had sauntered over to Anne and though Maud could not hear what they were saying, it was flagrantly clear he was enjoying her company.

Angry, Maud went to swallow some of the admittedly truly excellent wine offered by this pestilential house and choking, had to be thumped on the back, which, most unfortunately, broke the string of her necklace — her best necklace! — so that gold beads, coral and garnets were scattered all over the waxed floor tiles and skittered everywhere.

During the ensuing fuss, Maud was distracted and so she did not see, though others did, William raise Anne’s hand to his lips.

‘Lady, your beauty confuses me. I do not know how to describe it. But I am so thankful, praise God, that you are restored to us, so that I may at least go on trying to find the words!’

‘A long speech for such a little subject, Master Caxton.’

Anne was warm and direct when she spoke to men she liked — another plus in William’s eyes — another outrage to those who were jealous.

‘You are better?’

Anne nodded. ‘Yes. I am healed. And because of Deborah, there is only the very smallest scar — which none but those closest to me will ever see.’

She laughed. And so did he, giddily. Thinking about that part of Anne’s body added distraction to his words.

‘It is surely a miracle that the wound closed at all. I thought you would die.’

It was a dark thing to say on such a sunny day — not the bright, meaningless party-chatter expected from a guest — and the shadow of the truth he had spoken was nearly tangible. ‘Some say I did, Master William.’

A strange and dangerous remark, and William only just stopped himself from sketching a cross in the air — that made her smile.

‘It’s mentioned in the Bible, you know. A glimpse of paradise and then, return to life. And there’s Lazarus too, isn’t there?’

This was a worrying conversation. William didn’t think of himself as a bigot, but surely this was close to blasphemy?

Maxim appeared at Anne’s side, visibly swelling with the news he contained. Anne listened as he mouthed something in her ear then, face radiant, clapped her hands for silence.

‘My friends, Maxim says that the barges have been sighted! Come, join me upstairs so that we can cheer them on their way to the Prinsenhof!’

The stair was wide to the upper quarters, but the rush of her guests, whilst it was decorous, was determined, so some were in danger of being pushed over the carved balustrade by the press of people.

Anne led them herself and as they entered her own private quarters, many were astonished. For the occasion her bed had been moved against one wall, but the space around it was still great, great enough to accommodate forty or so people — and all the servants — with ease.

As they crowded to the casements, thrown open to let in the air and the view, Anne did her best to arrange matters so that each one of her guests could see — tallest at the back, youngest and smallest seated on the window seats — whilst she managed to reserve a place for herself in the far corner of one of the windows. She also made sure that Maxim, Deborah and the other household people had one casement all to themselves — to the continuing scandal of Maud and her friends.

Looking down, Anne could see the banks of the canal, curving away towards the Kruispoort, and each window of every house filled to suffocation with the people of Brugge — colourful as the heber in high summer.

Everywhere there were banners, embroidered or painted with the Red Bear, the symbol of the city, and images of the Virgin, special patroness of Brugge, many personally designed by Hans Memlinc. And too, freshly gilded busts and bas-reliefs of the Holy Mother and Child were everywhere in niches at street corners, whilst polychromed life-sized statues of Mary were set up on plinths at each raised bridge over the canal, garlanded with white roses, as an honour to the Princess Margaret of York, now their duchess.

And, then, at last, yes, preceded and enveloped by wave after wave of the deep roar of many voices, there came the procession of barges drawn along the canal by huge and patient horses — braided, polished, hung with precious trappings of silver and gold — led by young men, each more handsome than the next, in white tabards emblazoned with the red bear of Brugge.

The first three barges were filled with minstrels, puce-faced with the effort of making themselves heard above the din. Then came three more filled with very young girls, selected for their beauty, all dressed in white and green, long hair crowned with wreaths of white roses and ivy — singing a continuous, plangent epithalamion to marriage and scattering white petals on the water. Immediately behind them came a barge of state, the largest, brightest of all; the carved arms of England linked with those of Brugge, and everywhere, on all its surfaces, C & M linked together as a device.

There was a raised dais in the stern of this last barge and there, dressed in red and gold, was the new bride, the new duchess, the Lady Margaret of England, smiling, waving, throwing flowers to her delighted subjects as she sat beside her new husband, the duke. A glowingly handsome couple, and it was well noted by the crowd how pleased in each other they seemed.

Anne smiled ruefully when she saw the new Duchess of Burgundy. Today there was very little left of the handsome, difficult girl she remembered who’d fought so often with Elisabeth Wydeville, the queen. This was an assured, beautiful young woman, conscious, in her new and splendid scarlet and gold dress, that she’d come to fulfil a destiny which now seemed much less onerous than it had before.

Then there followed another great barge with the king’s mother, Cicely, Dowager Duchess of York, mother of the bride, seated beside a tall man with broad shoulders who was laughing, and waving to the citizens of Brugge as they screamed and threw flowers in a blizzard of white, and red, green and gold and blue.

And when Anne looked down, pealing bells clamoured in her mind and the world slowed. The man who had filled her dark nights, her dark dreams for so long, Edward, was turning his head slowly, slowly, white teeth glinting, red mouth smiling. Edward. The father of her son. Edward, the King of England.

He too was dressed in cloth of gold, but green sleeves and a green flat cap surmounted by a light crown honoured the day and the new love he hoped would grow between his sister and her new husband. Green — there had always been green between them.

Anne fingered the emeralds amongst the pearls lying around her own neck and, before she had time to think, time to curb instinct in any way, unwound the jewels and watched herself throw them, seeing the priceless rope of gems land in that golden lap.

And watched as Edward the King looked up for the source of this unexpected, precious bounty.

‘From the merchants of Brugge to the King of England.’

It was her voice, she heard herself say it, saw that it cut through, knew that he had heard.

She would remember that look all her life — when his eyes locked to hers as he stood up in the barge, searching for the owner of the voice. From shock, she said nothing more. From shock too he was mute, but he saw her, saw her face.

And as the barge swept by beneath her windows, he stood and watched her until nearly the last moment, then he bowed. To her. And she bowed back. There was a buzz all around her, she heard it, but it made no difference to Anne de Bohun. It had begun again.

T
he city was in ferment. After the first ecstatic welcome to the Duchess Margaret and her triumphal, painfully slow progress through the streets so that as many of her new subjects could see her as possible, all the Bruggers were avid for gossip — how had the first meeting been between their duke and duchess, and how had the wedding service gone?

There was good reason for all the giddy pride and interest. The bride herself was much approved of, and not only by the people. Duke Charles himself was in barely contained fever now to have the wedding banquet out of the way, for when he had first seen her, first looked into her eyes, something hot had flicked from him to her. He could feel it in her hands as he reached down to help her from the deepest of curtseys. They’d been shaking. He’d pressed them secretly for reassurance. And she’d smiled up at him.

The long mass before both court parties in the packed cathedral at Damme had made the new duchess dizzy and exhausted, but the noise of the city and its citizens, their clamorous demonstration that they were determined to love her, was restorative. As was the warmth of this man she had never met before.

Well might Duke Charles be warm to her. From what he could see of her body, she was well made, better than well made. Nearly as tall as he was, but with such a face — not just glowing youth, real beauty — and such a strong spirit that her schoolgirl French and complete lack of Flemish would not matter once they were in bed together. It would please him greatly to match his body to hers, breast, belly and thigh. He sighed luxuriously at that thought, felt the blood begin to itch.

And for her part she’d seen a man whose strongly made body — excellent shoulders, flat belly, long, strong thighs — affected her more than she understood.

During the rich tedium of the mass, he’d smiled at her, looked deep into her eyes and winked! And then, breath had deserted her when her hand was first placed into his by her brother, the king, in front of the archbishop of her new city. And he’d certainly made her blush when he looked happily, and not very discreetly at her breast as he swept down into a deep bow at the conclusion of the service whilst whispering compliments, in slightly awkward English, about her peerless eyes, her charming teeth, her lovely hair. He was comical and he knew it. She could not help smiling, quite broadly. And he smiled back at her. That delighted everyone from his court. And hers.

Her ladies in the cathedral had seen the exchange also, and even her mother, Duchess Cicely, had not rebuked their ribald sallies as they dressed Princess Margaret for the wedding banquet that evening. The duke would plainly be a demanding husband, they giggled, and this warm and brilliant wedding night would surely be guaranteed to exhaust both groom and bride. Their young lady must be well supplied with strengthening drink at the wedding feast in anticipation of such a handsome, well set-up husband!

Only Edward was silent as he too was dressed in his suite of opulently furnished rooms, his mind working on many levels simultaneously: the politics of this visit, the pleasures of old friendships to be renewed — and Anne.

He closed his eyes as they dropped the clean linen over his lightly sweating skin and he replayed the images of the day. As King of England, intent on cementing an alliance between his kingdom and Burgundy, he knew it was his task to prepare himself mentally for the evening but he was still shocked by that moment on the canal when the skein of pearls and emeralds had landed in his lap. Still shocked. Then, to look up and see her face. It must have been her, Anne?

He was haunted now, so eager to see her, to touch her, so afraid he was wrong. Had he hallucinated her face onto another woman’s because the magic of this wedding day cast glamour over reality? He shook his head, almost groaned.

Edward forced himself to concentrate as he reviewed the day, to prepare himself for the politics of the night. After the final, triumphant entry of the English court party into the Prinsenhof — he ceremonially advancing with his mother on his arm, step by step in time to the music of tabors, pipes, flutes and drums, to where the new bride and groom were waiting on a dais outside Duke Charles’ palace surrounded by the Burgundian court — Edward had been conducted by the duke himself to this opulent suite, so familiar from his boyhood, to prepare for this evening’s wedding feast.

Elaborate and warm courtesies had been exchanged by both the duke and the king — presents given and received. Every mark of honour from each side to the other and compliments: on the beauty of the princess, the dignity of Duchess Cicely, the magnificence of their welcome.