In Great Waters (30 page)

Anne stopped appearing in court whenever she could. She spent her time with Samuel Westlake, who, though he could not but notice how his charge had grown anxious and subdued, only grew kinder and calmer when he spoke to her, forcing no confidences. Anne was not comforted by this: the fears weighing her down were so great that she longed to unburden herself, but she could not. They were matters of state; her responsibility. She could not share them without betraying herself as a princess never should. Erzebet had not confided, and her daughter would not either. It was too difficult to talk about. She would have liked to tell Samuel something, if only that she was oppressed by fear, that her body was losing the memory of ease, that she could not
sleep and when she dozed she had nightmares and the days were all too long. But Samuel was too tactful to ask. Anne would have liked him to insist, to force her somehow to speak, but since he did not, she couldn’t tell him.

The day that Edward announced Mary’s betrothal, though, she could not avoid the court.

Anne found little she wanted to see these days, but she could not help but look about her. The court had thinned of late. Edward had spies, she knew, and it could only be expected that with the throne so weak, there would be plotting. But there had been no scandals. A few great names had been quietly sent back to their estates with soldiers to guard them; many more middle-ranking nobles had followed their example and gone home. Possibly they were tending their lands; possibly they were raising armies—though with no alternative to set on the throne, there would be little point in a rebellion. Possibly some of them had simply sickened of the sight: frail Edward, lumpen Philip, two small, frightened girls, all that was left of the Crown of England. Anne would have wished it so, but she was too sad to believe it. It took a strong stomach to be a courtier.

There were musicians still in attendance, and they played the fanfare for good news. Anne had heard such fanfares since she was a baby, and had never much questioned them, but, alert and anxious, she could hear in their strains the original deepsmen’s phrase they were supposed to represent. It wasn’t about good news. It meant
good hunting; good prey
.

Edward had always stood on his feet, even though his gnarled hands trembled on his canes, but today his legs had failed him. He sat on his throne, its silver chasing rising above his shrunken body, like a child on a grand carved chair, and announced the good news: negotiations would soon be concluded for a marriage between Mary, nearly fifteen and the heir to the throne of England, and Louis-Philippe, second son of King Louis of France.

The court huzzaed dutifully, but Anne could see the glances. Louis-Philippe was not the Dauphin; that would have meant Mary leaving for France, a foreign princess in a foreign court, as Erzebet had
been. The choice of Louis-Philippe could mean only one thing. The throne of England was to go to a Frenchman.

Anne’s throat clenched. She remembered the arguments she had read on the day of Erzebet’s death, King Louis’s discourse on the souls of the deepsmen and the landsmen, the divine blood of kingship. The words had sunk so deep into her memory that she could no longer judge them as arguments, hearing them only as the music that played in the background of a great disaster. But they had been coherent. Louis was no Philip, no idiot: Louis could hold a throne.

Louis would have his son on the throne of England. England was going to be swallowed up by France.

Mary raised herself to her feet to do obeisance to her grandfather. Her legs were even less steady than usual as she rose, though, and Anne could see, with a flutter of panic, that there were tears in Mary’s eyes. Anger momentarily writhed in her chest: it could have been worse. Mary would have a husband who was probably not an idiot, who would not maul her with thick, clawed hands, who could carry a sentence to its conclusion and protect her, if he chose. It was terrible, but it was no less terrible than any other alternative Anne could think of. Stern-faced, stoical Erzebet glimmered in Anne’s mind. Erzebet would not have wept.

Anne pulled herself to her feet, tottered over to her sister and embraced her. From the outside, it might look touching, the congratulations of a simple-minded princess. But as she locked her arms around Mary’s neck, Anne hissed in her ear: “Control yourself. We are before the court. Do not let them see you like this.” Mary’s breath was hot on her ear, and Anne felt a salty tear press against her own cheek, briny and soothing. She tightened her grip and whispered, “Show them a still face. Be silent.”

Mary’s arms came around her, and her sister held her hard for a moment. Anne shut her eyes. Even with everything going, the embrace was a second’s worth of comfort, and comfort had to be taken where it could. Mary clung around Anne’s neck like a child, and Anne shivered. Since Philip, since Erzebet, Mary had seemed somehow younger than her. Anne wanted to pity her sister, wanted to feel
charity, but if she pitied Mary, betrothed to an acceptable man, what would that let her feel about her own life? She gripped Mary close, trying to hold something together.

Philip had sat dully in his place, and Anne kept her face carefully averted from him. Beside him, as always, stood Robert Claybrook. Claybrook was leaning over him, whispering in Philip’s ear, and Philip was shaking his head slowly, a look of unwillingness on his face. As Anne watched him out of the corner of a carefully downcast eye, Philip leaned forward. It was a meaningless movement, nothing more than a gesture of impatience with his counsellor’s advice, but the suddenness of it made Anne jump, her canes unsteady and her legs weak. The moment of clumsiness was enough to unbalance her, and, canes skidding and legs crumpling, Anne landed in a heap on the floor.

Anne swallowed. Collapsed before the court; so much for princely dignity. In another moment, she would be crying like Mary.

She heard the scrape of Samuel Westlake’s awkward gait before she saw him, heard it at once; he must have started forward without pausing to think. The thought of that warmed Anne just a little, and so she sat still, waiting for him to reach her side and help her up. His progress was slow, his lame leg dragging behind him, but his hands were firm as he pulled her to her feet. Anne swallowed again, and forced her voice to be steady. “I thank you, my lord Bishop.”

Westlake bowed and turned to resume his place. To do so, he had to cross the dais, and at the sight of his halting limp, Philip looked up, curiosity in his face.

“Stop,” he said.

Westlake turned. His haggard face seldom showed emotion, but Anne could see he was frozen before his prince.

Philip shook off Claybrook, who had laid a cautious hand on Philip’s massive shoulder, and picked up one of his canes. Leaning forward, thick flesh bunching at his waist, he proffered it to the Bishop. Take,” he said. Take.”

Anne glanced at Mary, hoping she was using the distraction to gather herself; in fact, Mary was just as distracted as everyone else.
Staffs were the right of princes, no one else. But the rights of princes were subject to exceptions, if a prince so chose.

Westlake stood with hands carefully tucked by his sides, and looked at Edward. The King’s face, withered and tired, turned from the court to his son and back again. There was a few seconds’ pause before he raised his hand, gesturing for Westlake to take the staff, a gesture less of bounty than of resignation.

Westlake reached out and took it, shifting his weight onto it with just a tiny, barely audible sigh. The fine wood clicked against the stone floor all the way back to his place in the crowd.

Philip watched him go, chuckling a little to himself and batting his great palms against his lap. Edward watched him for a few seconds, then turned back to the court. “Letters have been sent,” he began, “issuing an invitation—”

“Marry?” Philip said, his bellows voice blasting over his father’s frail one.

Robert Claybrook leaned down, whispering in Philip’s ear.

“Marry!” Philip said, his tone rising. He had caught the word “marriage” from Edward’s announcement, Anne realised with her heart beating in her chest, and now he was getting interested. “Wife!” Philip said.

Anne’s face blazed. She put her hands to her cheeks, ducking her head and spreading the webs of her fingers over the treacherous light, but she couldn’t turn away, not with all eyes upon her.
Do not let him look at me
, she prayed in desperate silence,
Mother of God do not let him look at me, Mother of God do not let him see me …

“Wife!” Philip said, leaning off his throne and reaching towards her. “Here! Here!” His great arms were grappling the air. Philip could not stand alone, but he was leaning forward, his demands ringing around the room: he was calling for Anne to be brought to him. Every drop of Anne’s blood screamed for her to run, to grab her canes and stagger a ridiculous broken flight from the room, but she couldn’t do it; idiot or not, a princess could not run. Erzebet had stood bruised and stern before the world, Erzebet had—
oh God I want my mother—

There was a thud and a clatter, and a muffled snarl of pain. Robert
Claybrook had been leaning over Philip again, trying to hold his arm back, gesturing to the Privy Sponges to stand back and withhold their brine. A single swipe of Philip’s arm had brought him down. Anne gripped her canes desperately; Philip had knocked down the greatest landowner left at court. This wasn’t knocking down some servant; he had toppled his minder. Everything was falling apart.

The click and scrape of Westlake’s gait was an undertow to the tumult in Anne’s ears, barely noticed, but when she looked up, there was Samuel, whispering to Edward, who was gesturing with a taught, shrunken hand. And Samuel was making a careful progress over to Philip.

He spoke quietly to one of the Privy Sponges, who handed him his bowl. Westlake’s voice sounded softly under Philip’s yells, and he stood, calm as a tree, before the thrashing prince, dipping his sponge and reaching out with a careful hand to moisten Philip’s brow.

The distraction slowed Philip down. He turned his head and blinked at Samuel, water dripping down either side of his face.

“That is good, my Prince.” Samuel spoke quietly, so quietly that Anne doubted any ears but a deepsman’s could have picked him up. “That is good, Philip. Be calm. All is well. All is well …”

The words subsided into a croon, and Samuel stroked the sponge over Philip’s face, his arms, caressing him as a nursemaid might bathe a baby. His voice was a quiet sing-song, and Philip leaned back, closing his eyes.

Samuel’s glance flicked over to Anne for just a second before returning to Philip, but by that time, the blaze of her cheeks was starting to diminish. She stood, silent and still, and as the sponge ran over Philip’s forehead, his face creased. He was smiling.

H
ENRY HAD ALWAYS
dreamed of water, of grey dark seas and vibrant depths, the glitter of salt in shafts of sunlight and the flick of fish through the moving currents. After the burning, though, he dreamed of fire.

Months passed. Henry trained with his weapons out of doors, worked his horse, waited. John came sometimes, but Claybrook was nowhere to be seen.

Robert Claybrook talked of the arts of war, but he brought no soldiers with him. He smiled and traded words and told Henry,
No, no, no
, all his life,
Wait, not yet, no
. Robert Claybrook had stood by the pyre as the child burned, and under his command had daubed the idiot prince so that the heat of the blaze did not distress the royal skin.

For eight years, he had waited for the favour of this man. He had waited on land that he could have ridden over any time he chose. It had not even been difficult to slip off Allard’s grounds; he just had to climb on his horse and point its head forwards. There were woods beyond, and roads, and mud, and it was not different from the mud and trees of home. There were people in their hundreds and thousands, and he could not fight them all, not without help, and Claybrook stood among them as the hot, rippling air spilled from the pyre.

And the princes, the princes had come to the burning as well. Henry brought his axe to his chamber and slept with it beside his bed,
waking up suddenly with the flutter of fire in his ears and grabbing its handle, gripping the solid wood in his hands. It was never hot in his room; the cold air of night always came as a shock when he jerked awake. But the question that came to him in the night was a simpler one than any other he had thought to ask before.

You could not ride a horse for ever. An all-night plod had been enough to exhaust his own; it stood panting in the stables and shivered under its blanket, and Allard had pleaded with him to leave it alone for a few days’ rest. Henry had obliged; the pleasure he felt at seeing Allard again had surprised him and he was in no mood to hurt the man. But the burning had taken place only a night’s ride away from Allard’s land. And the princes had been there.

The next time John came riding in to visit, Henry charged him. John had come in waving and hailing, with a sack on the back of his saddle that must have been a fox. The sight of it pained Henry; it would have been good to chase the animal, ride it down, pin it with a spear and rip his frustrations out of its wet, twitching flesh, but afterwards they would simply celebrate their victory and Henry would feel he had accomplished something, and then they would be friends and he couldn’t ask John for the truth. John had been subdued since the burning, his smiles forced, his easy gestures constrained, and Henry had been too pained by the sight to make John unhappier. If he was going to ask, he had to ask now.

Henry turned his horse’s head and made straight for John, turning the butt of his axe outwards. The haft caught John squarely in the chest and he tumbled, landing so hard that he rolled for five feet before coming to a stop, doubled over, clutching at his ribs, breath rasping in his throat like a creaking door.

Sliding off his horse, Henry landed beside him, pushing John back and sitting on his chest, webbed hands braced against pale throat. John had grown tall, looming more than a head above his friend, but there was no match in strength between them; Henry could wrestle John down with one arm. John’s eyes were wide, but he made no effort to struggle, lying flat on the ground and fighting to get his breath back.