The Exiled (26 page)

Flags flew, snapping and flapping in the fitful air: the red bear of Brugge and the arms of England hung from alternate poles, arranged at intervals behind each of the galleries. And, too, because she had the duke’s support, a special stand had been erected in which the expected royal party would sit.

It was most luxurious. Backless benches had been ranged in tiered rows, each supplied with part-coloured red and green velvet cushions tasselled in heavy gold, and four chairs of state were placed at the very front, in clear sight of the common people: one each for the duke and his duchess, the other two for the King and Queen of England.

These last two chairs had taxed even Maxim’s ingenuity to breaking point. Where, at the very last minute, did one find two
extra
chairs of estate, fit for reigning monarchs? Find them he did, of course, but it had taken a truly indecent sum of money to bribe Duke Charles’ own under-chancellor to permit use of the very chairs that had been used at the wedding feast the night before.

A quick re-dress with new green velvet cushions and they looked, well, if not completely different, different enough to puzzle those who were about to sit in them.

And so it began.

Anne’s seamstresses had made her a dress of her own, imported forest-green damask, a tribute to the famous Lincoln green of England’s archers, which had a number of whimsical additions.

Slung around her chest was a silver-gilt quiver containing gilded arrows plus a tiny hunting horn studded with emeralds. She also wore a jaunty green cap with a long curling pheasant feather, a feather which matched the deep russet of her hair caught back, behind her head, in a simple bone clasp.

Now Anne waited in front of the stands packed with happy townsfolk as distant trumpets announced the arrival of the court party from the direction of the Prinsenhof.

With a bright smile, she signalled Maxim to advance towards the duke and the bridal party.

Anne did not immediately see Edward, but when she did breath left her as their eyes met. She would not hold his glance, however, dropping into a curtsey, ducking her head for a moment; anything to regain poise in his physical presence. The images he evoked in her — the sense of having been with him, naked only such a short time before — was confronting, exciting, strange; for now they must pretend to be strangers, even though he smiled so yearningly at her bent head as he dismounted.

Elisabeth missed the glance from Edward to their hostess, however, for at that moment — to contrive maximum focus for herself — she’d covertly spurred her horse as the court party advanced the last few paces towards the contest ground. Not unnaturally, her palfrey — a finely bred steel-grey Arab with a white mane and tail — had reared in outrage and leapt forward, unsettling other horses in the party and causing courtiers to jump out of the way.

The crowd in the stands was therefore treated to the sight of the handsome King of England personally calming his wife’s horse. What they did not see was Edward’s angry frown at the blood running down the Arab’s belly, a wound which could only have been caused by Elisabeth Wydeville’s vicious spurs.

But the queen had achieved what she set out to do — all eyes were on her, not the duchess, not the duke, not even the king her husband, as the court party were bowed forward by Maxim to where Anne waited, pale but resolute, in front of the crowded stands.

One, two, three more strides and the dazzling court party was within touching distance. One, two, three more breaths as the trumpets blew and Anne dropped into a perfect court curtsey from which she was raised, personally, by the duke.

There was a moment’s breathless silence in the stands as those lucky enough to have seats leant forward to hear their duke.

‘Lady Anne, you have excelled yourself.’

He gestured around the beautifully laid out ground, the lavish seating for the common people and the exquisite stand created for the court party.

‘Ah, Lord Duke, this is a trifle. And only to express the humble gratitude of my guardian, Sir Mathew Cuttifer — who is not with us today — and myself, for your great kindness to us,’ Anne bowed to the duke, which he gracefully acknowledged with the merest hint of a smile, ‘and the joy we all feel today, at the sight of your most lovely duchess.’ Another, even deeper bow to Margaret, who, as she was now close enough to see Anne’s face clearly, was looking puzzled.

‘And we are also particularly grateful for the presence of our sovereign, King Edward,’ now Anne knelt, head humbly bowed, at Edward’s feet, ‘and his most gracious queen.’ It was beautifully done, and though most who looked at the little pageant were merely dazzled by the beauty of the moment, there were others amongst the court party who found themselves perplexed.

Perplexed by the expression on Queen Elisabeth’s face — a frozen smile that did not change, yet was strange indeed for its lifelessness — and that on Edward’s face as well. For the king gazed down with unusual intensity upon the bent head of Anne de Bohun.

Nothing escaped the duke, of course.

Those who knew him well were confused for he looked like a man enjoying a private joke as he, personally, insisted on raising Anne to her feet once more, much to Edward’s barely concealed annoyance as he too had stepped forward, holding out his hand to Anne.

But all Anne’s nerves vanished when she saw the mischievous glint in the duke’s eyes. He was being profoundly naughty, she could see that, and the gambler in her heart stirred and stretched. There was a plan being hatched here but Duke Charles was on her side, or so said his sidelong wink as he helped her up. Now, if she could just work out what he wanted her to do.

Anne’s guests were soon seated, as the crowd stamped and cheered, whistled and shouted. They wanted the contest to begin, that’s what the men had really come for. For the women it was different, of course. They’d come to see the bride, and the clothes. They weren’t disappointed. The noble guests in the royal stand were all lavishly attired, none more so than Anne de Bohun, the remarkable English girl who had made this happy day possible.

There was a sudden mutter of thunder and anxious eyes were cast to the western horizon again. The clouds were ominously darker and the wind had dropped. Livid sulphurous light cast a strange glimmer abroad; even a neighbour’s face looked eerie, let alone those of strangers, in the odd greenish glow from the sky. Hurriedly people in the crowd crossed themselves: let this not be a bad omen for the start of this marriage they’d all wanted so much.

A hunting horn rang loud as a golden arrow flew to the centre butt, finding the black circle at its heart. There was a shocked gasp from the crowd and the court party. Anne had signalled the beginning of the heats by firing the first arrow herself. The crowd could not know, but Anne had been brought up as a child to shoot true with her own small bow; she and Deborah had lived in the forest alone and there was much wild food to be found, especially in hard winters. She might be rusty from lack of practice, but the instinct had never gone away.

To the delighted applause of the crowd and the court party — though not from the queen — Maxim announced the form of the contest in a loud voice, as he signalled the first contestants to step forward.

The archers had been selected on a first come, first served basis and as expected, there had been a frenzied rush of entrants from both the city and the court when the contest had been formally called out by criers, hired by Anne, on the streets this morning.

In the first round, there would be twelve heats, each composed of twelve archers apiece. Then the three top-scoring archers from each heat would compete against each other in a further three rounds of twelve archers, but only the winning archer from each of these semifinals would go into the final round. The victor of the final twelve would take the entire money prize plus Anne’s silver quiver with its uniquely valuable arrows.

As the first twelve men took their place before the line of targets amongst loud encouragement and jeers from the citizens in the stands, the members of the court party settled into their luxurious seating, determined to enjoy the day.

Not so, Queen Elisabeth. Only rigid will allowed a smile to stay in place, but her eyes, those famous blue eyes, were as cold as the deep North Sea as Anne returned to her place, a deliberately small though luxurious stool, to the right of the thrones in the court stand.

The duchess smiled at Anne and beckoned her forward, speaking quietly as the other girl curtsied.

‘Lady Anne, it seems we must have met before today, but I cannot recall where that might have been. Was it at court in London?’

Duchess Margaret was a shrewd girl, and she had a good memory for faces. But for once she was questioning what she remembered. Surely it was not possible that a servant in Elisabeth’s suite only a few years ago was now an ennobled merchant, in high favour with the duke in Brugge? She must be mistaken, surely? A case of two women looking remarkably alike?

The queen, pretending to be entranced at the sight of her subjects contesting with the Bruggers, did not appear to be listening, but Edward was, as was the duke.

‘Duchess, you have never met Lady Anne de Bohun before. I have lands in the west country ... and I have always preferred a simple life.’ It was curious wording — to speak about yourself in the third person was almost the conceit of a poet — but for Anne, it was the truth. She had not been Lady Anne de Bohun at Westminster, that came afterwards when she told the king who she was, and he had ratified her right to the title given to her mother.

And she did, indeed, prefer a simple life. It was just that life had not worked out that way.

‘A simple life, Lady Anne? How can the life of a merchant be simple. And such a successful one as yours seems?’ Now it was the queen who spoke and she had never sounded more gentle, more sweet.

Anne answered the queen in a low voice. ‘Your Majesty, I strive to live quietly, giving offence to none. And some might call that simple.’

The crowd suddenly roared into life. The victors of the first heat were announced to another crack of thunder.

‘Simple to me means the life of a peasant — would you not agree, my liege? Servants, too, are often simple. But then, servants do not necessarily stay servants.’ The queen had turned with a glittering smile to Edward, determined to involve him. There was a moment of sweating silence — the crowd was stilled, waiting the first shot of the next heat and the wind had dropped so that the queen’s words were unnaturally loud.

Edward’s eyes were fixed on Anne’s as he answered.

‘Peasant is a much abused word, wife, as is servant. We are servants of our people, are we not? And to be simple is a noble condition — it was our Lord’s way. And some would have called Him a peasant, since He was the son of a carpenter.’

‘Ah yes, but he was of noble descent, was he not?’

The queen was pleasant, for all the world playing a courtly game of banter, engaging her knight the king in a contest of wit and allusion.

‘We are none of us as we seem — Christ recognised that. He looked for the noble beneath the rags, it seems to me; fishermen were good enough for him. And lepers and tax collectors. Even women of ill repute.’

Elisabeth allowed herself to become arch.

‘Ah, women of ill repute? Yes, that was indeed gracious of Him. If legend is to be believed, many an earthly king consorts with whores, though for different reasons than salvation, I suppose.’ That got the attention of the courtiers; it was unlike the queen to be coarse or to allude to Edward’s famous appetite for other women. She must be feeling very threatened to be so frank, in public.

Edward was furious, though he would not react, or show his hand, for that was plainly what the queen desired.

The duke caught his new wife’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She dropped her eyes from his, but not before he saw a wicked smile to match his own enjoyment of the sport before them. And it was not the archery.

Below the glittering court, the contestants stood and fired, whistle and thud, whistle and thud ... the heats were moving through quickly as the crowd groaned and cheered alternately, native Bruggers battling to best the motley assemblage of English who had entered the contest for glory, and gold.

Anne, meanwhile, sat humbly before her noble guests, apparently listening politely as debate passed to and fro between the king and queen.

But her heart beat faster and faster. She had to stand this ground, appear indifferent. If the queen had wished to unmask her, it would have happened by now, except that the king had come to her defence.

The queen was momentarily silenced by a mighty yell. The crowd was saluting the winner of the third heat — a young man, barely a teenager, it seemed, who had triumphed over his much more grizzled and experienced opponents. Anne clapped her hands delightedly too.

Duke Charles enjoyed Anne’s spontaneity. ‘You know this boy, Lady Anne?’

‘I do, Your Grace. He is a page in our household — Stephen. I had no idea he could shoot as well as this.’

‘But if he wins the contest, would it not pain you to lose such a valued servant, Lady Anne? The prize you offer is very great, enough to set the ambitious winner up for life, it seems to me.’ It was the queen again, silky smooth. She was walking on dangerous territory, and she knew it, but anger was making her incautious. She hated this girl who should be dead, hated her!

‘Freedom is important to us, Your Majesty. I would welcome it if this serving-boy won the contest. I would know that he gave of his best to do it; he would always be welcome in our house.’

Anne looked Elisabeth directly in the eyes as she replied, yet, suddenly, the sky split with sudden white light and thunder burst, directly overhead.

In that moment rain began to fall, fiercely, and then hail, stones the size of lemons, the size of oranges; they drummed on the roof of the royal stand like the beat of war drums, but at least the planks above their heads held, though the noise was so intense it was impossible to speak, much less be heard.

The common people in the open stands were not so lucky. The size and ferocity of the hail was so great that as the people shoved and jostled to climb down quickly and find shelter underneath the tiered seating, many were struck and wounded. Screams and blood were added to the confusion.