The Exiled by Posie Graeme-evans Read Free Book Online

eaten on their return. Anne had asked Maxim to ensure that everyone dress in their livery of scarlet and grey, to make a brave show on this gloomy morning, and she had instructed that the curtains of the litter be fastened back so that the townspeople would know it was she who was inside.
    Marching at the head of her small procession was Maxim, carrying his steward’s staff of office. He was followed by four men — outdoor servants from the stable, the byre and the gardens — who carried her litter while beside her stalked Ivan, slung about with a sword, two daggers and wearing a steel cuirass adorned with glittering brass. Around his neck was the gold chain she had given him last night and he was scowling as he walked, swinging his fierce glance from side to side as if daring shadows to produce more abductors and assassins.
    Behind the litter walked the women of the household and the remaining men led by Deborah, dressed plainly, but in good English broad cloth. Each of those who followed her was warmly clothed and well shod and they were healthy: no frail, rickety bodies, very few missing teeth. They made a satisfying display as servants of a rich, well-ordered household. It showed as they walked proudly, heads held high, across the vast square in front of the enormous belfry tower on top of its Cloth Hall.
    Bells rang across the city, the wind buffeting the sound, as the people of the town were called to mass on the Feast of Saint Valentine.

Chapter Five
    A s usual in winter, the great space inside the Cathedral of Saint Donaas in Brugge was icy, and as folk whispered to one another before the service began, the mist from their breath hung in the air amongst the incense smoke.
    Anne walked in with Sir Mathew’s household people and filed off to stand with the women on the left side of the aisle, whilst the men stood with other male parishioners on the right. In that piercing cold, she was grateful for the fur lining of her mittens. She was also grateful for the velvet-footed hose, tied under each knee with ribbon, and a silk under-kirtle, but even then the layers of cloth were not quite enough to hold out the chill breathing from those ancient stone walls.
    It was said this church was built over the remains of a much earlier building, perhaps even from the times when the Romans had lived in this place. Certainly Baldwin Iron Arm, one of the great original dukes of Burgundy and a fearsome man, had begun this building in more tumultuous times and a later descendent of his, Charles the Good, had been murdered in the choir. Now the early history of blood and struggle had been silently folded into the walls of this massive church with its forest of trunk-like pillars, its interior so dark and full of shadows. Hundreds of years of incense-borne prayers and pleas for intercession had floated up into the blackened roof timbers and now, as the congregation around her kneeled whilst the priest prepared to elevate the precious host, Anne too sent up a prayer for help and strength to the Christian gods — for she was in their house.
    The sonorous words of the mass flowed over her and for this time, Anne forgot the fear that curled like a wakeful snake in her belly. She was a capable person and had some resources to buy help if more was needed. Perhaps if her prayers were heard, the intercession of the Holy Lady Mary, patron saint of this city, would help her see the way forward, would bring her light. And, later, when night fell, she would ask the other mother Goddess, Aine, help of the dispossessed, the suffering, for vision also.
    Aine, goddess from her childhood in the forest; Aine, goddess of the disposed dark people of the West — she too had power, she too spoke to Anne in the dark quiet of the night when bad dreams tried to catch her.
    Mary and Aine. They must be sisters, surely? One dark, one light? Both the mother of sons as she, Anne, was. They would understand her need, surely?
    The bell near the high altar rang,