The Exiled Read Online Free Page B

forever, and life must continue if she, little Edward and Deborah were to find a real home for themselves, a place not dependent on the kindness of others. There was a lesson in this attack — she must plan, seriously, for their future. If she did not, others would do it for her. Perhaps after she had eaten, clarity of thought might return and the tide of emotion recede. For now, though, she was tired, very tired and her knees ached, for the ice on the canal had been hard and jagged as thorns in places.
    ‘Thank you, Maitre.’ Courteously she sipped a little more of the wine he had prepared for her. ‘Delicious. I shall enjoy this with supper.’
    Gently, Anne kissed the sleeping baby in his cradle, tucking one small hand under the velvet counterpane. How much she yearned to pick him up, but his sleep was so peaceful, it would not be kind.
    ‘Please call me when he wakes, Maitre Flaireau?’
    ‘Of course, lady. This so dear baby delights us all, but truly, his heart is in his aunt’s keeping.’ The cook bowed gallantly, understanding how much Anne loved the little boy. Fear touched her heart for a moment. Perhaps he knew, perhaps they all knew that he was truly her son?
    She must be careful, and go on being careful, if they were all to survive.
    Tonight was the tolling of a bell: a tocsin, a warning. From her brief time in Brugge, Anne had begun to believe that she could make a new life for herself here — and little Edward. The Cuttifers had been very kind in their support, but she was a guest in their house; she would not, could not allow herself to live on their goodwill forever. She had a choice. She must find a way to make her own living independently or ... marry.
    But if she was to have a husband, let him be one of her own choosing, not someone who came at the point of a sword.
    Anne shivered as she stopped near the top of the stairs outside her solar; dark images from the attack forced themselves behind her eyes. Breathing faster, she let the pictures come, trying to understand. Perhaps a calculating young bravo had been watching her — the ward of a powerful, wealthy man — and decided to improve his fortune? She wouldn’t be the first.
    But was there was another explanation?
    Had someone paid to have her killed? Someone eager to remove her from the board of European politics? Someone who knew about her — her relationship with Edward, King of England — and, perhaps, knew about her son?
    Anne’s hand shook as she pushed open the door into her own private solar — yet another kindness from the Cuttifers. The pretty room was softly lit by a hanging brass candelabrum whose six fat wax candles burned clear and bright, a very great extravagance, but one she was happy to pay for from her own modest means; the smell of burning tallow made her sick.
    She entered the solar with gratitude; it was peaceful and beautiful, a well of calm in a mad world. The room faced the canal at the front of the house and the windows were so extravagantly large that they took up the entire width of the central gable. Thus her room was never dark during the day, no matter how sullen the skies might be; and sometimes, on the night of a full moon, Anne slept with her shutters drawn back and the casements flung open, a practice opposed by Deborah. It was common knowledge that the moonlight had power to strike the unwary. It was unhealthy to lie within that treacherous silver glimmer, breathing night air — in itself, profoundly harmful — for bad dreams and bad luck came from Luna’s light, especially for women at the time of their monthly flow.
    Anne had kissed Deborah softly on the brow when the older woman first voiced her fears — kissed her, but ignored her. The moon was her friend. It had been on a moon-flooded night that her son had been conceived and for that, she would always welcome the brightest nights.
    On this dark evening, Deborah had had a fire lit so the room was warm and cosy, though a wind was rising off the