The Exiled by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

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