The Smallest Man

by Frances Quinn

  While the seamstress was fussing with the doublet’s hem, I brought my arm up to my nose. The fabric smelt of nothing. I thought of my old clothes, waiting to be burned. They didn’t have the stink of the dog shed, I was sure of that, but if I buried my nose in them, I’d smell home. I pictured my family there, without me, and screwed up my eyes so I wouldn’t cry.

  Chapter Six

  Three days later I got my first glimpse of the city where I was to live. Once, Sam and me stirred up an anthill with a stick and the ants came teeming out, scurrying in all directions, as though every one of them had a different place they needed to get to, and quickly. That, to the eyes of a boy who’d never been outside our small market town, was what London looked like: people everywhere, all going about their particular business, most of them in a hurry. A couple of men dressed in fancy clothes like the duke’s crossed the road in front of the coach, the feathers on their hats dancing in time; two apprentice boys in aprons, their faces pimpled with sweat, lugged a wooden chest; women bustled along with shopping baskets laden with parcels. A girl passed by with a basket on her head, piled high with apples, shouting that they were ‘fresh this morning from Kent’, and a man dragged a big fat donkey, and called out, ‘Fresh milk, asses’ milk, best milk for your babies’, over and over, like a song. Not one single face was familiar.

  As we trundled on – so slowly even I could have walked faster – the streets narrowed, lined with buildings that leaned towards each other so the tops of their roofs almost touched. The sunlight disappeared and the air thickened. If the duke objected to the smell of our dog shed (which as far as I knew he’d never been inside anyway), how could he bear the stink of London? It was like a fog you couldn’t see, a mixture of smoke and dung and rotting food, with the dark, musty smell of mud and water. It got up into my nose so I could almost taste it, and yet the people walking around didn’t seem to notice; they just went about their business as though they were breathing the same ordinary air we had at home.

  ‘This place seems to get bigger every time we come,’ said Joseph, the duke’s servant, who’d travelled with me. The duke and duchess rode in a bigger coach in front, and a wagon piled high with boxes and crates wobbled along behind. Joseph yawned so widely I expected to catch sight of his breakfast, and leaned back in his seat, stretching out his long legs in front of him. How did he come to be so tired? He’d not only slept through most of the journey, but snored his way through the two nights we’d spent at inns along the way. I’d barely slept at either place, partly because it was so strange to be away from home, and partly because Joseph’s snoring was so loud I might just as well have laid my head down in the middle of Oakham’s town square on market day.

  Since he was awake now, I took the chance to ask if he knew why I was being taken to London. I was sure Marjorie had been mistaken about me being a present for the queen, but he said it was right.

  ‘The queen don’t like his lordship, see, on account of the way the king hangs on his every word, and the duke only has to snap his fingers to get whatever he wants. And there’s no love lost there, because his lordship don’t like her either. Mind you, nor does the king.’

  ‘But why’s he giving me to her if he doesn’t like her?’

  ‘Makes him look good, doesn’t it? She’s always complaining he’s stirring up the king against her, but there he is, giving her a nice little present. Who comes up smelling of roses then?’

  He tapped the side of his head.

  ‘Smart, his lordship is. Come from nothing – well, as good as nothing. His father was a gentleman but only barely, and his mother hadn’t a penny to her name. But he got himself so well in with old King James, you’d have thought they were father and son. Which if you ask me is how the king would’ve liked it – never had much time for Prince Charles, what with his stuttering and stammering, and his strait-laced ways. He’d have liked a son with a bit of a swagger to him, and the master’s got that all right.’

  Prince Charles was the king now. We’d said prayers for him in church, when the old king died, and people talked about how he wasn’t supposed to be the king, his brother was, but his brother had died. I’d felt sad for him then, imagining what it would be like if Sam died, and I felt sad for him again now. I knew what it was like to be a disappointment to your father.

  ‘And now the master’s just as well in with him,’ Joseph went on. ‘Soon as he saw the end was coming, he starts praising him up, and giving him bits of advice. Before you know it, the prince is counting on him like a long-lost brother, and when he takes the throne, the master’s right there beside him. They say his majesty won’t decide what to eat for breakfast without consulting him first. So if the queen’s got any sense, she’ll thank him prettily for you, and make up her mind to get along with him as best she can.’

  He sat up and looked out as we rumbled through another gate and turned into a broad road. The huddled, overhanging buildings disappeared and we passed fine big houses made of stone, with rows of windows.

  ‘Here we are. This is the duke’s house, on the left.’

  The house he pointed to was the biggest of them all, built of pale grey stone. It was surrounded by a wall and to the side were trees, lots of them.

  ‘This is just the back. Front’s on the river. And that’s the orchard at the side. Lovely, it is, specially in spring.’ He leaned back. ‘You’ll have to see it all later though, we’re to go straight to get you measured up.’

  ‘But they already made me new clothes.’

  ‘Not for clothes, lad. They’ve got to measure you up for the pie.’

  Chapter Seven

  I was a frightened little boy, who knew nothing about London but what my father had told me: that it was a different world, and the people there weren’t like us. And I’d already seen that those eleven shillings chinking into his hand meant they could do what they liked with me. So in my innocence, I honestly believed they were going to bake me in a pie for the queen to eat. I thought that must be what they meant about giving me to her as a present.

  So I had to get away. Wait for a minute when no one was watching, and run as fast as I could. Which wasn’t very fast, but if I could get few minutes’ start on them, I might be able to hide somewhere and wait until they stopped looking. I didn’t know what I was going to do then: I had no money and nowhere to go.

  Joseph lifted me from the coach and as he reached back in for his cloak, I took my chance and ran, darting back the way we’d come, to a courtyard with a big tree in the middle. There were four ways out; I chose the nearest, a narrow path between two buildings, just as the duke’s shout came from behind me:

  ‘Find him. Now.’

  Running feet pounded towards me. Where could I hide? I ran towards the nearest door.

  Don’t be locked, please don’t be locked.

  The latch was high up. I stood on tiptoe, stretched my fingers, but I couldn’t reach it. I looked around; there was nowhere else. Crouching down, I bent my legs like a frog, then jumped up as high as I could, stretching my fingers. The latch rattled out of its slot. I pushed the door and tumbled inside as it opened.

  The room was piled high with sacks of flour, stone jars and wooden casks. I put my ear to the door. The footsteps stopped; they were in the courtyard.

  Go another way, don’t come this way.

  ‘He can’t have got far,’ said a man.

  ‘No,’ said Joseph. ‘But he’s a shrimpy little bugger, he’ll have hid himself somewhere. I’ll have a quick look down here, you carry on that way.’

  One set of footsteps, coming closer. He was in the lane. I squeezed behind a row of barrels in the corner, just as the footsteps stopped outside. The door creaked open: Joseph. I held my breath, my eye pressed to the tiny gap between two of the barrels. As long as I didn’t move, he wouldn’t see me.

  He peered around, gave the flour sacks a kick, and seemed about to leave again. As he opened the door, a shaft of sunlight fell across the floor. He glanced down, and smiled.
I followed his eyes to my footprints in the dust. I ran but of course he caught me, plucking me up by the back of my jacket, and holding me in the air.

  ‘Let me go,’ I shouted. ‘You can’t put me in a pie!’

  ‘Is that so? We’ll see what his lordship has to say about that.’

  * * *

  The duke looked down at me with the same expression he’d had when he’d said that thing about the queen’s delicate little nose. Like something was funny, but he couldn’t quite be bothered to laugh.

  ‘What were you going to do?’ he said. ‘Run all the way back to Oakham?’

  By now I was trembling. I kept remembering the bakery in Oakham, and the way the air in front of the ovens shimmered in the heat.

  ‘Please, don’t put me in a pie, sir.’

  ‘Why not? I paid good money for you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Let me go home, my father will give it back.’

  I was almost sure he would.

  ‘And then what would I fill the pie with? Can’t let the queen go hungry, can we?’

  He must have seen my terror but he just looked at me, his head on one side, a little smile twisting his lips, then turned to Joseph.

  ‘Do we have any beef, Joseph?’

  ‘I expect so, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps we should make a beef pie for the queen.’ He tapped the corner of his mouth with one long finger, then shook his head. ‘No, her majesty isn’t keen on beef. And I want this pie to be a treat for her.’

  ‘Please, sir. Let me go home.’

  ‘Perhaps fish?’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘But it’s so hard to get good fresh fish at this time of year. No, it can’t be fish.’

  He looked down at me again, with that same half-smile. Then he threw his head back and laughed, and Joseph laughed too.

  ‘They say some bad things about me,’ the duke said, ‘but no one’s yet accused me of eating children. Take him to the bakehouse, Joseph – you can explain on the way.’

  * * *

  ‘Be careful – drop this and the duke’ll have your guts for garters.’

  I recognised the cook’s sharp tones as the pie, with me in it, was slowly lifted. The heat of the kitchens retreated as we moved towards a swirl of voices. It sounded like a lot of people – over a hundred, the cook said. She’d told me no one was going to eat me, or even put me in the oven. The duke had been laughing at me; the pie was just a pastry box, already cooked, no gravy or anything, and I had to lie in it, dressed in the fine blue clothes, until it was put in front of the queen. Then she’d open it and find me in there. They wouldn’t even eat the pastry. I’d asked the cook, and she’d sniffed and said no, they’d just throw that away, it was a terrible waste of food, but she wasn’t there to reason why, she was just the person who had to work her fingers to the bone for their whims and fancies, wasn’t she? I couldn’t believe it was true, that they’d waste all that pastry – it would have fed us at home for a week – but then I couldn’t believe anyone would consider it a nice surprise to find a boy in what they thought was their dinner either. But the cook told me they were always putting things in pies that weren’t really pies.

  ‘A dozen larks I had to get for the duchess’s birthday. Had a devil of a job getting them all sealed in, then she took the lid off, and they flew up to the roof timbers and shat on the company.’

  As the pie was placed down, the duke spoke.

  ‘A gift for her majesty.’

  The voice that replied was light and clear, but she pronounced the words peculiarly. I remembered Joseph saying she was French.

  ‘Thank you, but I have aten – eaten – enough.’

  ‘Ah, but this is something special. Lift the lid and see.’

  The corner of the lid nearest my feet was broken away. ‘Hold your breath,’ the duke had instructed me. ‘Don’t move until my signal.’ I hoped he wouldn’t be too long about it.

  ‘A doll?’ She sounded cross. ‘You think I am a child, who plays with dolls?’

  ‘No, your majesty. Take off the rest and see.’

  The remainder of the pastry lifted away in one piece and a face looked down at me. I didn’t know the queen was so young. She was just a girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Her eyes and hair were dark and wound through her hair were strings of pearls. She wasn’t pretty exactly, but she had the kind of face that looked like it smiled a lot. She wasn’t smiling then though; she looked as cross as she’d sounded.

  The duke coughed, and I sat up. She jumped, clapping her hands to her mouth. As the duke plucked me out and stood me on the table, a gasp went round the room and a hundred voices started talking at once.

  ‘A little man,’ he said. ‘Ten years old, and perfectly formed in every way.’

  You’d have thought he’d put me together with his own hands.

  ‘Bow to her majesty.’

  As I bowed, crumbs of pastry floated down onto the table. Should I pick them up? Then people started clapping, and when I looked up, the queen was smiling.

  ‘Un parfait petit homme,’ she said. ‘I have never seen one so little.’

  ‘T-t-ten?’ said a man dressed in black, sitting next to her. ‘B-but he can’t be!’

  ‘But he is, your majesty,’ said the duke.

  The king. King Charles himself. Right there in front of me. I guessed he must be at least ten years older than her, and his long face and thin lips looked unlikely to smile much at all. As he stuttered over his words, he closed his eyes for a second, as if shutting out all the faces made it easier to speak. Beside the duke, who’d changed into a doublet spangled with beads that caught the light, he looked like a pigeon with a peacock, and I remembered what Joseph had said about the old king wishing the duke was his son.

  ‘A true miracle of nature,’ the duke went on. ‘The parents are of ordinary size, and I believe he has two or three siblings, also quite normal.’

  The queen smiled at me.

  ‘How – what – are you called?’

  I felt a hundred eyes on me as I opened my mouth to answer, and my voice came out wobbly.

  ‘Nathaniel Davy, your majesty.’

  ‘And from where do you come?’

  ‘From Oakham.’

  ‘A town in Rutland,’ said the duke. ‘It’s in the middle of the country.’

  ‘And the smallest county in England,’ said the king. ‘So small, and he’s from my smallest county.’

  He looked around the room, and after a second, there was a burst of laughter. I glanced back: every face behind me was laughing, throwing their heads back as though he’d just made the funniest joke in the whole world. The duke laughed harder than anyone; he even wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. The king smiled, but then his face fell when he saw the queen wasn’t laughing. He leaned across to her and I heard him say quietly:

  ‘I should have thought you might be pleased that you came tonight, despite your headache. Perhaps you see now that George wishes to be your friend, and has nothing but our best interests at heart.’

  ‘Yours, perhaps,’ she said. ‘His own, certainly. Not mine.’

  He sighed, and turned away from her.

  ‘Her m-majesty seems to be having her usual difficulty in finding the right English word,’ he said to the duke. ‘But I am sure she wishes to express her thanks for the g-gift.’

  Both of them looked at her; she flushed red but said thank you, quite politely. As the duke bowed, irritation flickered across her face. She knew why he was being nice to her, even if the king didn’t. I thought to myself – and though I didn’t know it then, I’d often think it again – that the king wasn’t as clever as you might expect a king to be.

  * * *

  That night, for the first time, I slept alone, in a chamber that was just for me. Exhausted by the terrors of the day, I thought sleep would come quickly, but it was strange to lie without Sam snoring gently beside me and, despite the heavy coverlet, I was cold with fear. All I’d ever known was life in our little house, with my mother
and father and Sam and Annie. Now I was all alone in a world where I didn’t know anyone, and as I lay there in the dark, I wondered what was going to become of me.

  Chapter Eight

  My new home, the palace of Whitehall, sprawled along the riverside for half a mile, with so many buildings, and courtyards and gardens and little streets running between them, that it was like a village in itself. It was so big that the king and queen didn’t even live together; she’d brought all her own servants and priests and ladies in waiting over from France with her, and she lived with them on one side of the palace while he lived on his side with all his people. I supposed that was because they didn’t like each other. I didn’t find out until later it was just what kings and queens did.

  That first morning, when a servant took me to the chamber where the queen and her ladies spent their days, we walked and walked through halls and galleries and passageways and I tried to memorise the twists and turns, certain I’d never find my way back again. Finally, we reached a tall double door that opened to the servant’s knock. I jumped back with a yelp: there was a giant standing there. He was as tall as one and a half men but thin, with long, spindly legs that ended in the biggest feet I’d ever seen. I had to bend my neck back to look up at his face; it wore a melancholy expression, as though he’d just heard bad news and expected more at any moment. He leaned forward, very slowly – there was a long way to go – and shook my hand. I half expected it to be crushed in his but the handshake was surprisingly gentle.

  ‘Jeremiah Hobley, the queen’s doorkeeper. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you won’t find it too cold here. There’s a stiff old wind blows off that river, gets right into your bones. Beats me why they want to live here, damp as it is, but there’s no knowing with people of fashion, is there?’