Chapter One, Unfurling

Anne’s punishment had been going on for so long she’d lost any sense of time. She would get them back, these bullies, how dare they ... Unjust … She writhed from the blows, tried to scrabble away, and lost the fight to stay on her feet. Unfair … When her skull cracked the cobblestones her mind clouded …

But she still felt the pummelling.

‘What you doing?’ A voice pierced her fog, ‘Stop.’ A man, commanding, ‘Get away.’

Rough scuffles, and then, after one last kick, she found peace to lie still. They must have gone. Felt silence like a pillow before the aches, bruises forming, her back wet against the stones. Then, unwillingly, she was lifted by her elbow, stretching her arm, light taxing her eyes, his hands none too gentle, shaking her down, straightening her clothes. ‘You’re barely a scrap, child.’ He restored order and pulled at her. ‘Come.’

Prayed to the Virgin she wouldn’t be in a worse place but had no choice. He was strong and they were at the water fountain before she knew where they were going. The women doing their washing stopped their chatter and watched. Anne felt their affront, but he didn’t seem to notice. His travelling case sounded heavy and clinked as it landed on the cobblestones. He pulled her closer to running water. ‘Let’s get that blood off … ’ Splashing her with handfuls of cold, he checked her for injury. ‘Where do you live? Come, lad. Tell me your name.’

Having no intention of answering, she shook her head, and squirmed. When his hold loosened in the wet she ran away. As she ran, she looked back to see him after her. He carried his travel case and searched the crowd. Hiding behind a stall of sheepskins, she watched him pass, before taking off in the opposite direction. Dodged women wearing long skirts with muddy hems, bent with the weight of shopping baskets and babes. Passed dogs lying near their masters, and horses raising up their tails to let loose piles of steaming clods. Ran through the smells, the cacophony of spruiking, and the chaos of the monthly Templemars market.

Cheek by jowl the mix of tents stood, from the bright, grand, and decorated, to the grimy and oft mended. The stalls were triangular wooden structures, roped together, top and sides draped with fabric. Wealthy traveller merchants, dry and superior in their larger tents, rose above lesser market gardeners used to wet as they grubbed in the mud of the marais.

Heavy rainclouds pressed the flatlands as Anne ran past trestles displaying rhubarb, asparagus and beets, carrots and radishes, lettuces and limp offerings that may have been turnips or cabbages, splayed out like decomposing fish. There was even a small dish of early strawberries, bright as blood red stars.

As she swerved past stalls of clothes, metal cooking pots and ceramic plates, Anne saw gatherings of gossips, leaning in, ‘—Impossible!—’

‘—How could such a thing happen in this day and age?—’

Even the Dutch were talking about it. ‘—outrage!—’

This news must be reported at once.

Almost back at the convent stall, Anne watched her rescuer approach Armaud, and put down his case as they talked. Understanding she would now be in bigger trouble, she determined to keep running to beat Armaud back to the priory. She’d be the one with the news, not that old tertiary monk. Feet struck hard into the uneven road. Right hand gripped her side. Felt the dull ache of their kicks in her ribs and the bumps on her head. Swiped her sticky hair from her face as she ran.

Crashed through both sets of gates, burst through the big front doors, and ran down the stairs. The wooden walls were dark brown shadows. The floor where her feet pounded were grey flagstones. She slid into a streak where someone had recently been scrubbing. Almost lost balance, would have fallen, but pushing off the wall with her hand, kept running. Straight into Marie Therese who grabbed her by the upper arm.

Anne swung around the nun in a strange dance before she stopped, breathing hard, her nose close to the wall panel.

Marie Therese added a shake to her squeezing hand. ‘Where do you go?’

Anne looked up at the nun and promptly looked down again to avoid the sting of Marie Therese’s black eyes. ‘I have to … ‘ Anne panted, ‘ … Mother Prioress.’

Marie Therese shook her head and turned Anne round to face the corridor, pushing in the direction of the kitchen building. Anne felt the strong fingers dig into her arm as she attempted to leave.

Anne pleaded, ‘I have to tell Mother—’

‘You have to nothing.’ Marie Therese marched her down the hallway.

Anne twisted to get free of those hands. ‘But—'

Marie Therese hissed like a snake, her pointed nose right in Anne’s face. ‘You. Are. Disgusting.’

‘Marie Therese,’ said Anne, wriggling, ‘Let me go!’

‘Filthy!’ Marie Therese held Anne away from her. ‘Obey me.’

Anne took the chance to escape. A mistake.

Marie Therese slapped Anne’s face. Hard.

Anne gasped. Trying to steady her breathing she looked up to search for any chance of negotiating. ‘Marie Therese, please. Mother Prioress will be angry when she finds out.’

The nun insisted, ‘What?’

She leaned forward to whisper, and Marie Therese had to bend to hear, ‘The King!’

Anne was pleased to see the tertiary had not expected that.

‘King?’

‘Our Majesty!’ Anne could not help the stubborn tilt to her chin. Even as she did it, she knew Marie Therese was at the end of her patience.

‘Which King? Philip?’

Anne heaved backwards and broke the nun’s grip. Quick as moth to flame, ran down the corridor. Shouted, ‘My King! The King of France!’ Anne ran until she reached the Prioress’s office, opened the door, and walked in.

The Mother, dressed in brown folds of fabric, sat at the central wooden table. Her back was straight. Her black-veiled head bent over books spread out in front of her. Together with the manuscripts arrayed around her were jars of candied treats and bowls of fresh fruit and nuts. The Mother’s work was lit by candles, and, well above head-height, two small windows were cut into the depth of the wall. Those filtered in their own squares of light that sliced over her papers.

The lower panelled walls were lined with portraits of children from wealthy and influential families, ones who wanted (and could afford) to influence heaven. Some of their faces were pale, painted after their deaths. They had a rose colour in their cheeks and stood strangely upright and convivial. They were prettily dressed, surrounded by their toys, things enjoyed in life, and flowers too. Lilies. Palm fronds. Things they’d never see with earthly eyes again.

The Mother looked up at Anne and frowned. Anne thought the Mother Prioress’s face looked like one of the cheeses she’d seen on the high table on special occasions. The soft round was tightly framed by the white wimple and throat covering under her black veil. The Mother shook her head as she studied Anne. She raised her eyebrow as she said, ‘You may come in, may you?’

Anne felt she was about to burst. She drew in breath to speak.

The Mother held up a hand in warning. ‘Wait.’ She looked down at the rows of figures in front of her, wrote a number, then another, then carefully laid the quill down and closed the lid of the ink jar. She began to examine Anne’s stained doublet, up and down, then frowned and asked, ‘Are you hurt, Anne?’

‘No ... ’ Anne opened her mouth, ‘It’s the King—

A firm knock at the open door and, dismay, Marie Therese’s face appeared. Quickly, like a swirl of dark sepia ink in a pond, the thin lay nun was beside her. With her came a rush of emotion that thrilled dangerously even before Anne felt her face slapped again.

Marie Therese grabbed back the upper arm and, without ceremony, pulled her toward the door. ‘She must learn.’

Anne, with her hand to her slapped cheek, looked to the Mother and silently pleaded with her.

‘Marie Therese?’ said Mother Prioress. ‘Is this necessary?’

Looking back to the Mother, Marie Therese gave Anne a shake. ‘She’s late. Again. Running wild, dressed as a boy. She must remain here. She should—’

Anne knew her face was red but only partly from the force of the slap. Kept her eyes firmly on the Mother.

‘Thank you, Marie Therese. I can see to her.’ Mother Prioress looked up, ‘You may let go.’

Marie Therese straightened her back and pinched Anne’s arm, so hard that Anne might remember for days, and let go.

‘“Obey them that have the rule over you”,’ the Prioress said quietly, ‘“and submit yourselves: for they watch over your souls.” You know the quote?’

Marie Therese, surprised, obviously could not recall any such precept.

Mother raised her hand in dismissal of the woman and looked to Anne, ‘Anne?’

As luck would have it, Anne knew it, she’d heard it only recently, it was … ‘Is it … Hebrews?’

‘Very good. You see, Marie Therese? Anne de Breuil can learn her lessons.’ And to Anne, she added, ‘You may find the verse another time.’

Marie Therese could not help herself adding, ‘She should stay inside the walls.’

The Prioress glanced up at the sister, nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Marie Therese.’

Anne continued to look only at the Prioress.

She felt the danger of Marie Therese behind her and assumed the thin nun bowed to the Mother before she left the room. At the sigh of brown fustian, and the shutting of the door, Anne could relax.

Mother Prioress sucked her stained teeth thoughtfully.

Anne rubbed her sore arm and took a step closer to the table.

‘The King, you say?’ said the Mother and, seeing Anne open her mouth to take a breath about to start, held up her hand again. The wedding ring, embedded into the soft finger, glinted in a sun-spear from the small window high in the wood panels. She took two walnuts from the bowl in front of her and cracked one against the other, picked amongst pieces of shell-wood for the nutmeat. Licked her lips. Finally, she looked at Anne.

Anne hopped from foot to foot as she waited on the cool stone floor.

‘All right, daughter, you may speak.’

At last! ‘The King of France. Dead!’

‘Henri?’ Mother Prioress looked up sharply from her walnuts and then, casually, back down, ‘How so?’

With attendant horror Anne breathed, ‘With a knife! Stabbed!’ After a short pause, she added, ‘They say he was assassinated. But, Mother, we say God is King. And God will live forever. Our only ruler is Our Lord God, is that not so? And who is King Philip? Is he King of Flanders? Why are there so many Kings?’

The Mother Prioress raised her eyebrow again.

Anne was disappointed the Mother would not be drawn in theological discussions today.

‘Well, my dear,’ Mother Prioress selected some walnuts, ‘that is indeed interesting. Do you want me to break them for you? Or would you prefer whole?’ She held the walnuts out.

Anne nodded. ‘Whole, please.’

The nun gave both nuts. Anne took them and put them in the pocket worn around her waist over her grimy breeches. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

Mother Prioress regarded Anne with some humour glinting in her eyes. ‘Anything else?’

Anne considered she had bought enough information to the Prioress in payment for ... ‘One question?’

‘Yes?’

‘About our new King?’

The Mother was thoughtful as she began to correct Anne, ‘He’s not our King, you know. He belongs to France.’

Still not satisfied, Anne persisted. ‘But, I was French once, wasn’t I? Like the boy King?’ Anne wondered which question the Mother would answer.

The Mother chose the easy one. ‘Louis?’

‘They say he’s only a child? Like me?’

‘Yes, just like you. He’ll be a weak rabbit of a King.’

‘But who will look after him?’

‘Why his mother, of course. Like you.’

‘Like me, Mother Prioress?’

The Mother nodded, ‘Only I suspect he’ll obey his mother and be better dressed.’

Anne looked down at her boy’s tunic and breeches and saw what the Mother saw.

‘Sorry, Mother.’

The Mother turned back to her book, adding, ‘You may change into decent clothing now. And waste no time about it. Or I fear there will be consequences.’

Anne knew the sort of consequences to which the Mother alluded. She wanted none of them. She hurried to the door. ‘Merci, Mother.’

‘Bless you, my child. And be careful.’