Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (34 page)

The Queen had told her to say this.

‘And what’s your name, if you
don’t mind me asking?’

‘I am Nelly Dent.’

She likes the lie, has never told one quite
like this before. The odd omission of the full truth, and perhaps occasionally a little
white lie to make someone feel better about themselves, but a real lie, there is
something exhilarating about it. It is the being someone else that she likes – the idea
that she can put on a new name like a new dress.

‘Are you related to the Dents who farm
up at Highgate?’

‘Distant cousins,’ she says,
enjoying the ease at which another lie slips out.

But it occurs to her that lies breed like
rabbits and once one is out others must follow. These lies, though, are for a cause –
for Katherine. Hers is a merciful mission and she wonders if God forgives that kind of
lying. She dips her hand in the water, letting it trail, enjoying the cool feeling of it
as the sun is hot and there is no shade on the river. Someone has thrown flowers in,
marigolds, which bob and float on the surface, and a few ducks gather round to inspect
them.

The boatman doesn’t let up with his
chat and she nods in agreement without listening, which seems to satisfy him. He witters
and complains about one thing and another, but the tide is going out, which thankfully
makes their journey a swift one, and soon they are at the water-gates, where the boatman
calls out to a guard. He winds a great wooden wheel to let the gates swing open,
allowing them to float right up to the steps. The water sucks and slaps around the
boat’s belly as she stands to disembark. Another guard arrives, liveried in
scarlet and gold with a halberd and a ring of keys rattling at his waist.

‘What is your business?’ he
asks.

It is only then that her stomach begins to
wring in fear, dipping and rocking like the little boat, but she thinks of Katherine and
her mission. And when she looks at him properly she can see that he is well past his
prime and not really very menacing at all.

‘I am to deliver this, sir.’

He proffers his hand to help her out of the
boat, chirping something about it not being usual to have girls as pretty as her
visiting the Tower.

When the boatman is out of earshot she says,
‘I have brought vittles and comforts for Mistress Askew.’

The yeoman makes to take the basket.

She pulls it back towards herself, saying,
‘I am instructed, sir, to hand it directly to her maidservant.’

‘I’ll need to see inside,’
he huffs. ‘Who knows what you might have in there. Though the state that poor
woman’s in, she won’t be escaping in a hurry.’

Dot pulls the cover aside and he makes a
cursory shuffle through the contents. Seeming satisfied, he tells her to wait and then
ambles over to a small wooden door as if he has all the time in the world. He runs
through his keys, inspecting each of them before finding the right one.

Dot’s never been to the Tower before.
It is not one of the usual palaces, though some of the Queen’s dresses are stored
here somewhere. She has always thought of it as a great dark place where terrible things
happen, but in front of her is a stretch of lawn with little houses about it, more like
a village than a prison, and the famous White Tower soars up to the sky with flags
ruffling from its turrets, making her think of the castles in the stories. But beyond
are the thick grey walls encircling the place, with their squat towers and long slit
windows, and the reek from the moat hangs over the pretty
garden. She
is only too well aware that behind those walls there are people locked up, awaiting God
knows what kind of fate. She has heard about the torture instruments, the hot pokers,
the rack, the manacles. In the kitchens after work the lads talk of these things all the
time to put the shivers up each other, making the laundry girls shriek and cuddle up to
them closer; when they’re not telling ghost stories it is tales of torture. Betty
is the worst for the frights, squealing like a piglet so she can get a squeeze out of
it.

She sits on a bench in the garden beside the
church, which is built of stone the colour of honey. Its windows gleam in the sunlight
and it has a bell tower that looks like a dovecote. It is not at all what she had
thought the famous St Peter ad Vincula would be like.

Ad vincula means ‘in chains’ and
all sorts of nobles have lost their heads in the shadow of that pretty church. It is
William who told her that – William Savage, who knows something about everything and who
hammered too hard on her heart until it broke. She had suffered silently for months
after the discovery of his wife. Not saying something is as good as a lie, she thinks,
but it has been a whole year and she doesn’t want to think of William now; she
couldn’t bear to go back to that place, that pit, where she did nothing but feel
his absence. It was enough to knock all the romance out of her. She wishes she
hadn’t seen him earlier, that he would go away and never come back, so she can
forget. But it is true, the feeling has faded and there is just the ghost of it now. And
when she thinks of the people locked up here, she feels she has no right to her petty
sorrows.

Soon a woman appears. She is tall and seems
uncomfortable being so big, stooping to hide it. The sleeves of her dress are too short;
they show wrists, all sinews, that might
look better on a man. Her
black skirt is worn and faded to brown at the knees – from praying, Dot supposes – and a
linen cap that must have been white once frames a face that is lined with strain.

Dot rises with an unreturned smile. ‘I
have some blankets and foodstuffs for your mistress.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ says the
woman in a soft wavering voice. The whites of her eyes have a yellow tinge and are
bloodshot with it. She doesn’t even ask who the vittles are from.

‘There is a pouch of saltpetre in the
pie,’ whispers Dot.

But the woman seems puzzled, tilting her
head to one side and scrunching her forehead as she takes the basket.

‘She must tie it to her girdle when
the time comes. It will send her off quickly,’ Dot continues, under her
breath.

The woman nods and turns, beginning to walk
away.

Just then, a quartet of men appears. It
seems to be a couple of noblemen, given their splendid clothes and spotless hose, with a
pair of pages trotting beside them. Anyone as finely dressed as these could only be from
court. Dot has seen their faces before. She can never remember which colours are for
which family; it is far too complicated. They will not let the maid pass, standing in
her way like dogs guarding a bone. A page snatches the basket from her, handing it to
one of the men. They are from the palace, she is sure, though she doesn’t know
their names. Dot drops into a deep curtsy but the maid stays brazenly upright. Instead
of admonishing her for it, they look right through her as if she’s not there.

‘You have brought things for Mistress
Askew?’ one of them asks.

He wears a collar made from some kind of
spotted cat, not really appropriate for the time of year, but Dot has an idea it means
he’s important. His rusty beard juts from his
chin like a river
pier. He has the basket, holding it out from his body as if is full of rats or snakes or
something else that bites.

‘I have, my lord,’ she says.

Her voice obeys her and doesn’t
falter, though inside she is tied in knots. She keeps her eyes from the basket, not
wanting them to think anything of it, or that it is important in any way.

‘I have brought things to make her
more comfortable until …’

She does not need to finish, they all know
it is until she is dragged out to Smithfield and burned alive. Dot keeps her head
down.

‘Stand,’ the man barks.

She jumps to her feet. The other man is
hanging back with the pages but she can see his ear is turned towards her. It is a large
ear with a long lobe that looks as if someone has stretched it. She seems to notice
everything: the tiny bells stitched to the bearded man’s collar; the sliver of
leaf-green lining beneath his robe; the little scrap of food that is lodged between his
teeth; the way his eyes seem kind but he does not; the russet hairs sticking out from
his nose; the way he sniffs, and clasps and unclasps the hilt of his sword; the grass
smear on the other’s white shoes.

‘And look up.’

She obeys him. He wears a smirk that is half
smile, half grimace and she sees a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

‘I have seen you about the
palace,’ he growls.

She can see he is trying to work out whom
she serves or where he has seen her.

‘Who sent you?’

‘A friend.’

‘Do you take me for a fool, you stupid
girl? Give me a name.’

A shower of saliva lands on her face but she
doesn’t dare even lift a finger to wipe it away.

‘Nelly Dent …’ she stumbles
over the words. ‘I … I am Nelly Dent.’

‘Did I ask for
your
name?’ he snaps. ‘I am not the slightest bit interested in who
you
are. You are nobody. Tell me who sent you.’

His last sentence is a shout and he grabs
her wrist, giving it a twist that burns her skin.

She will not allow him to see that it hurts,
and sets her face, thinking, thinking of something believable to say. She thinks of
Katherine. What would
she
say? She would think of something clever, would turn
this man’s questions right back on him. She would say, ‘I am the Queen and I
do not have to tell you anything,’ or quote something from the Bible that would
flummox him. But Dot
must
answer, and it must be an answer he believes. She
will not
betray Katherine.

‘My Lady Hertford,’ she
blurts.

The smirk transforms into a whole satisfied
smile. ‘Ah, you are Anne Stanhope’s girl. Now that’s better.’ He
gives her throbbing wrist a pat and lets it drop. ‘Isn’t it, Nelly?’
He hands the basket back to her, saying, ‘Now are you going to be a good girl and
show me what’s in there?’

She places it on the stone paving and lifts
the linen, taking out the contents: the jar of quince jelly, two loaves, a pudding, a
bag of salt, a sugar stick, the pie, a good blanket, two linen shifts, a cake of soap
and a small pot of cream of arnica for bruising. She lays them all out neatly, taking
her time about it.

He stands watching, arms crossed. He calls
one of the pages, saying, ‘Pass me that,’ pointing towards the pie.

A wave of cold passes through Dot, as if
she’s been dunked in the Thames and turned inside out, but she continues arranging
the blankets, not daring to take more than a glance their way. The page stoops down to
pick up the pie.

But the man yelps, ‘Not that, you
idiot. The sugar.’

The boy offers him the stick of sugar. He
takes it and bites, crunching through it until the whole thing is eaten. Crystal
fragments cling to his lips, and a darting tongue gathers them up.

And then they are gone, off towards the
water-gates, and Dot drops to the bench, closing her eyes and releasing a deep sigh,
steadying herself before starting to gather the things into the basket. The maid helps,
silently, and then disappears, back to wherever it is they are holding Anne Askew, with
nothing more than a nod. Perhaps she has forgotten how to smile.

Dot’s thoughts are churning. She may
not like Stanhope for all the awful things she has said about Katherine and the mean way
she treats her maidservant. But two-faced disloyalty and meanness or not, Dot has done
her a terrible misdeed by blurting her name out like that. It was the first name that
came to her. And this was a proper lie, a malicious one, not like the other lies she has
told, which were merciful lies, if not quite white, then pale and almost innocent. But
this lie is blacker than soot and will leave its marks everywhere. And what shocks her
most is that it slipped out so easily. But it is done now, she cannot unsay it. She
wonders what kind of terrible thing she has started by saying that name, can imagine the
effect of her lie seeping silently around the palace, and a feeling of dread threads
itself through her veins like poison.

An oil burner sends out fragrant wafts to
mask the reek of rotten flesh. Huicke packs away his things, corking the jars of
tincture and folding his muslin cloths while Katherine pours out a cup of ale for the
King and then settles on a cushion at his feet. She picks up a book that is lying open
and upside down on the floor, and begins to read from it. Huicke stops a minute to watch
them, recognizing Erasmus. It is the English translation Udall had worked so hard on,
the Book of John, the one Lady Mary had had a change of heart about, refused even to
have her name attached to. Udall had finished it for her – had changed the whole thing,
really – and was distracted for months, pacing the chamber all night, torturing himself
over the translation, digging away to find the particular word to convey something
specific. Huicke has never known a greater pedant, though pedantry is Udall’s
gift, is what makes his translations so much more subtle, so much finer, than others.
But the nocturnal pacing and digging, picking away at things, and the endless reading it
out loud for an opinion, made him an insufferable companion and Huicke often had to rise
in the middle of the night and make his way back down the draughty corridors of the
palace to his own lodgings.

The words are so very familiar, he almost
knows it by heart. He remembers, too, that when he used to visit Charterhouse daily he
often interrupted Katherine reading it to Latymer – in Latin, though. He wonders how it
is for her to be always reading to one elderly husband after another. The depth of her
patience inspires his respect, for his own is as
thin as watered ale.
When she is away from the King she is another person, bright and witty, poking fun,
teasing, ebullient; not earnest like this, with her muted laugh and serious smile. She
is like one of those African lizards, he forgets the name, that change colour depending
on where they sit. But her choice of book – and he is sure it
is
her choice and
not his – is an interesting one and gives away the hidden, brazen part of her. It is one
of the borderline books, not quite banned, but without a doubt frowned upon by Gardiner
and his cronies who would rather everything was in Latin, so that ignorance can
reign.