The Exiled (7 page)

His hostess would need to have a care — this man, his obviously familiar presence at Sir Mathew’s table, would be yet another cause for scandal if it were generally known.

‘Dear Lady Anne, you honour me, a poor Friar.’ The merchant had difficulty in keeping the scorn from his face, for Friar Giorgio was hardly the picture of a poor man. His habit was made from the finest, most densely dyed black woollen cloth and he wore boots of fashionable, soft leather instead of the customary sandals on his feet.

The friar stood and raised his right hand, slowly tracing the sign of the cross over the people below the dais where he’d been sitting. ‘May the good Lord look down upon our work this day and, at this its end, may we sleep the peaceful sleep of the just and the worthy in God’s sight. Amen.’

William was surprised — he’d been expecting the priest to speak in Latin, but the blessing was well and gracefully made in French, with hardly a hint of an Italian accent. This was an educated man, plainly, not like some of the ignorant brigands who claimed the shelter of a cleric’s robes.

‘Amen,’ echoed Anne with the household and, after a moment for quiet reflection, she smiled warmly at her guests. ‘Father Giorgio, we are most grateful for your blessing. I shall look forward to our conversation later today, perhaps after None? You must be very tired after your long journey. I think Deborah has the guest chamber prepared — you must rest well before we speak.’

William did not know, and Anne was not about to tell him, that Father Giorgio was part of a long-term plan she had. Before her son was born, they’d met at the convent where she’d been hidden, at which he regularly said mass for the sisters. He knew her secret — but then she also knew his.

He was a worldly man, this priest, and yet devout, but his great weakness was a love of young men. He flogged himself for it, but could not resist. Anne had once found him with a young shepherd who tended the sisters’ flocks in the fields outside the convent. She could have destroyed him with what she saw, but though the Bible condemned his feelings for the beautiful young peasant boy, and the acts they had performed in the fields together, she could not blame another human being for seeking the comfort of love, wherever it was offered.

She too understood how hard it was to love what was forbidden in the eyes of the world. No, she was not shocked by his passions, but she was sorry for him, so sorry that he was trapped in a life which could not allow him to express who he truly was. And her compassion made her a friend for life — and a commercial ally — for the priest was a well-travelled man.

Now, for the first time since her son was born, Friar Giorgio had come to visit Anne in Brugge with precious information: news of fashions in Italy and Paris — even bringing her samples of new fabrics with drawings of clothing and the ways women were dressing their hair. He was an amusing and adroit penman, amongst many other talents.

Since he was good-looking and personable too, he had told Anne that many other fashionable, well-bred women in Rome, Venice, Florence and Paris welcomed his occasional visits, inviting him to their houses and to their tables, and in return for saying mass, they gave him news and amusing gossip. Giorgio’s taste mirrored Anne’s own and they had much to offer one another if her plans to become a trader were realised. He could be her eyes and ears in the world — they could help each other to prosper.

Giorgio kissed Anne’s hand like a courtier, with a deep flourishing bow, as Maxim escorted him from the hall, but phlegmatic Englishman that he was, Caxton found he deeply distrusted this priest who smelled very faintly of roses.

With a start, he remembered again that he must find a way to persuade his hostess for her own good, and his, that he had the key to her future happiness. And with some urgency, if his wife was not to be too displeased with his prolonged absence.

‘Lady Anne, may I claim a little more of your time?’

Anne smiled as she led him from the hall. After cutting off the subject of her potential marriage, she was well aware that Master Caxton must be fretting. However, she’d learnt commercial strategy from a master, Mathew Cuttifer. Speaking of rivals in trade, he’d always said to her, ‘Let them wait when they want something from you. Delay their access. That way you have the advantage when you finally allow them to speak in your presence — they’ll blurt out more than they ever intended and you will learn more than they want you to know.’

‘Will you come to the workroom then, Master Caxton?’ Mathew Cuttifer’s parlour gave her a private meeting place whilst he was away, and was well furnished with a suite of handsome tapestries and simple chairs upholstered in gold-stamped leather. This room was where she would hang Hans Memlinc’s painting until she made enough from trade to find a house of her own; and for that, she needed William Caxton’s help with the guild.

It was a still, cold day, for now the early sleet had turned to snow and as Steven, the household page, hurried to bank up the fire in its hooded embrasure in the corner of the room, a curtain of white fell silently outside the casement windows.

The room looked out into the walled heber at the back of the house — it was of a good size and in summer was a green bower murmurous with the sound of bees from the coiled straw bee-skips in the kitchen garden. But now, as the snow fell, it was drained of colour except for the red of the brick walls enclosing the space. Here and there some few yellow leaves clung to the branches of espaliered pears, quince and medlar, but the life of the garden was hidden in the ground, waiting for spring.

Some people hated this time of year, the feeling that the earth had died, but Caxton loved nature in all its seasons, even winter, if one had the money to keep warm. He shivered suddenly, the image of beggars in the Markt holding out hands reddened with chilblains, pleading for alms. There but for the Grace of God.

‘Are you cold, Master Caxton? Come, let us draw chairs closer to the fire. Thank you, Steven.’ The young page had hurried to draw two of the handsome Italian fruitwood chairs closer to the hearth. ‘Please ask Deborah to bring us some mulled wine when she has settled Father Giorgio ...’

But for the crackle of the fire there was silence for a moment as William Caxton collected his thoughts. Anne was content to wait — she would not begin this conversation.

‘Lady Anne, I had news that you were attacked last night.’ He turned towards her earnestly, searching to see what effect his words had. Anne smoothed the velvet of her dress over her knees, half distracted by the lustre of the pile as she turned it with her hand. Warm, dark silver flickered beneath her fingers. ‘Yes. But I was well protected.’

Her expression was neutral and her words were calm, unsensational. William frowned.

‘But do you know who it was?’

Anne controlled her breathing as her heartbeat ramped up with the memory. She allowed herself to sigh, and shrug as if slightly impatient. ‘No. But certainly two of them died, perhaps more; we did not find all the bodies. Ivan ...’ Again she shrugged, this time philosophically ‘... Ivan is a good servant. Zealous. Still, they did not get what they came for.’

There was a very slight quaver in her voice which she could not disguise. Caxton looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Lady Anne, I hope you will allow me to speak frankly to you.’

‘Again, Master Caxton?’ She was smiling brightly now, but the raised eyebrows signalled he should be cautious; that what he needed to say might not be entirely welcome. Against the advice of a still, small inner voice, he continued.

‘The fearful events of last night prove to me, and my fellows at the Guild, that the wisdom of our stance is correct.’

Anne sat very still and Caxton found the directness of her eyes disconcerting. He had a distinct urge to lean forward and take her hands in his, to soften the blow to come. He resisted — such a gesture might be misinterpreted.

‘Lady, we cannot admit you to the Guild. It would not be right, not correct.’

Anne bit back a response. In her heart she had known it, but her throat closed over and she was shamed to feel tears gathering in her eyes.

William was mortified when he saw her distress.

‘Sweet girl, surely this is a relief to you? How can it be anything else? As a woman it is not suitable for you to trade — you must see that. I suppose, because you’re young, it seems exciting to you; I promise you it is not.’ Now he did reach forward, he could not help himself. If she would just let him take her hand ...

But she shook her head brusquely, swallowing tears. There was a moment of painful silence, which Caxton tried to fill.

‘I am sorry to make you sad. But there are other, more hopeful things to speak of. Your happiness.’

Seizing the moment, William Caxton hurried on.

‘Except for your guardian, a guardian who does not live in this city, you are a woman alone. Oh, I know,’ he held up his hand as if she had tried to interrupt him; she had not. That rattled her guest. ‘Ah, I know that you value independence, that you have Deborah and Maxim to guard you and that you have some of the means to
be
independent.’

Anne did not look at him, turning her attention to the snow as it fell, faster and faster. ‘But what happened last night will happen again — until you are settled. Safely, happily settled.’

Under strict emotional control now, Anne leant forward to stir the fire, one part of her seeing the snow had suddenly stopped; the world was white, unsullied. There was silence outside the window. That pleased her.

‘But Master Caxton, I am settled. As you see. I am part of an excellent, well-run household, as you say, and I am surrounded by those who have an interest in seeing that my ... independence ...
is
safeguarded, as you know.’ There was truth in this; independence was deeply important to her. If she trusted only herself, then she would never be let down by the actions of others.

William bought a little time to think by walking over to the casements. After a moment he turned.

‘You are a prize, lady, and as such, you are
not
safe. Last night showed us this. At present this city is full of lawless men and that will only become worse, as the year wears on.’

Anne was cool. ‘I am uncertain what you mean, sir. If you refer to the mercenaries, well, Ivan had proved himself their match.’

‘Not the mercenaries, madam. Those who pay them.’

Now Anne was genuinely puzzled. ‘But Duke Charles pays them. He would not harm me. Sir Mathew and Lady Margaret Cuttifer are especial friends of the Court of Burgundy, and through them, so am I. Who else?’

William bowed in acknowledgment before he chose to reply. Yes, it was true. She was favoured by Duke Charles, witness the venison.

‘The duke, yes. He, as I understand it, holds the House of Cuttifer in high regard. But there are others — surely you know?’

Anne was finding it hard to maintain her calm. Her heart was beating faster — she had been badly frightened last night, though she was determined that the little world she lived in, personified by the man standing in front of her, would not know that.

‘Master Caxton, if I listened to every little piece of malicious tittle-tattle from the Markt, I should be frightened of my own shadow.’

Again she laughed, a little breathlessly this time. ‘As it is, I doubt that the Guild of Merchant Adventurers would be so upset should anything happen to me!’

‘Ah lady, you do us a disservice. Many of our members are very worried about your situation, yet there is good news at this time also, especially for your guardian. And that, in turn, will be good news for you, I am certain.’

He said it kindly, earnestly. Anne looked at him measuringly. ‘Now that is the second time you’ve hinted at something extraordinary, Master Caxton. Will you tell me this important news?’

William smiled broadly, happy to tell her. ‘News that we have long suspected is at last confirmed. Duke Charles is to marry again.’ He watched her closely as he spoke, but her face did not change. He was not a man who thought he understood women very well, but she seemed unaffected, emotionally, by the news. ‘Well then, I wish him and his new duchess much happiness.’ Anne was quite calm. ‘When will the marriage be celebrated?’

‘In the later summer, I understand.’

Anne’s breath was suddenly ragged; rage flushed through her. He was sharing remarkable trading information with her because it didn’t matter. She would not be permitted to join their guild, so being told of the wedding was merely pleasant gossip. She’d never profit from it.

‘And who is the bride, Master Caxton?’ She was proud of how detached she sounded.

William Caxton was delighted to tell her. ‘The Lady Margaret of England — sister to the king.’ Even now he couldn’t quite believe it — such remarkably good news! An English princess as the Duchess of Burgundy would massively strengthen the bonds of the English trading community to the court and all its wealth, its disposable wealth, in this previously hostile city.

‘Mistress, are you ill?’ All the colour had washed from Anne’s face. Her eyes were closed and she’d slumped against the embossed back of the chair. William, panicked, leant forward to pat her hand. Another moment — and he stroked her brow, touched her cheek, was about to gather her from the chair and call out ... when Anne spoke. ‘No, no, please I, I must have eaten something putrid. It was just a wave of ...’ She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, forcing herself to smile ‘There, see, it’s gone. Whatever it was.’

Margaret of York. Edward’s sister! Would Edward, King Edward —
her
Edward — come to Brugge to give his sister to Duke Charles in place of his dead father?

Would she see the king again?

‘Lady, you’re not well. Shall I ask for your maid?’

Anne laughed shakily. ‘No, Master Caxton. I am well, believe me. There, you see?’ She stood, suddenly filled with energy.

Now she was desperate for William to leave so that she could think and make plans — such plans — in private.

Caxton was astonished — truly women were odd creatures. Here was this girl, one minute fainting, the next pacing alaunt, a war-hound. It was curious, too curious — William Caxton was no fool.