“Good morrow, Maydestone,” she said. If she could take the initiative, it might make it harder for him to wonder why she was out unchaperoned.
“Your Majesty.” Maydestone gave a deep bow, and Anne sighed internally at the sight of his straight back and strong legs. With such a body, she could run all the way to the river. He wore a respectful smile, but she noticed that it was a little softer than when he spoke to Erzebet or Edward. It was the same when he spoke to Mary, she remembered. Though Anne did not feel young, she recognised the face of a man who liked youngsters when she saw one.
“I would like my horse brought,” she said. In the rain-softened earth, her sticks were sinking, leaving sharp little burrows and smearing their sides with mud. It was an effort to maintain her balance.
“All alone this morning, my lady Princess?” The question set Anne’s heart thumping in her throat, and she felt her face tingle. She drew a breath and told herself that his tone had been friendly, trying not to blush; her face shining in the misty air would look outright macabre.
“I am. I mean to go riding,” Anne said.
Maydestone clearly weighed the situation for a moment. “Where do you mean to go, my lady Princess?” he asked.
“Down to the riverbank,” Anne said, too anxious to lie completely. She opened her mouth to ask that he bring her horse before her legs tired any further, but stopped herself: there was no need to remind him how odd it was that she’d be out by herself.
Maydestone looked at her for just a moment. Though his hesitation made Anne’s face prickle with nerves, her opinion of him improved: evidently he was caught between thwarting a royal here and now and referring the matter back to Erzebet, and on the whole, he was managing the situation tactfully. “I shall be back before I am required at court,” Anne said, letting tension sharpen her voice. There was a dry note of irony in her voice, she noticed; it was a tone Edward often used to reinforce his commands. “Bring me my horse, please, Master Maydestone.”
Maydestone bowed again. He had a look of cautious kindness in his face that Anne found a little puzzling. Erzebet granted her requests or didn’t grant them, but always with the same stern mien. People giving her things just to please her wasn’t common.
Maydestone, however, turned on his heel and returned with her horse a few minutes later, saddled and bridled and ready for riding. Kicking the block that stood by the stable door forward for her, he turned to the horse’s head, stroking its nose and whispering to it as she wrestled her way onto the block, strapping her canes to the saddle in their usual place and taking a firm grip. Maydestone’s attention, as usual, was away from this undignified scramble; he carried on speaking in a low tone to the horse, telling it about its beauty. The softness of his voice gave Anne a momentary pang; whether it was possessiveness of her horse or some other envy, she couldn’t have said, but there was a sting of jealousy that distracted her for a moment before she remembered she was on a crusade. With a bounce from her wobbling legs and a good pull from her steady arms, she was up and ready to depart.
“I thank you,” she said, interrupting his murmurings with the horse. Maydestone looked up, as if disturbed from a private conversation, then blinked and bowed to her. Anne gathered her reins and dug her heels into the horse’s side, turning away at a swift trot before he could say anything else, out alone into the green and grey morning.
The Thames was perhaps an hour’s ride away, Anne reckoned as she hastened along. From here, it would only be a narrow riverbank, but it should be enough. The further she rode, though, the more her spirits sank. Deepsmen sometimes offered to share fish, it was true, but she had never seen her mother bargain with them for goods like a merchant. And how long would it take them to hunt down a sea-unicorn and bring its horn to her? Days, weeks? The Bishop could not survive poison that long; he would live or die by Shingleton’s skill and God’s will, and those things would be decided in the next few days. It was nice to be out, to see the glittering grass slip swiftly away under her horse’s cantering feet, to canter at a good speed without a court to keep stately pace with, but the smell of wet earth and the cool mist on her face were lonely comforts. The further she rode, the more Anne felt the pressure of her isolation. Always a tutor with her, a riding master, a room full of people, talking obscurely and whispering one to another; she had found their presence oppressive, but being out so early, with the mists obscuring everything, was a new sensation. Even in the bay, she could follow her mother’s calls in the dark. The castle was already invisible in the mist; she could see hazy shadows of trees here and there in the white, but colours looked cold in this early morning light, and there were no signs of human life in any direction. Though she was determined to be brave, Anne gripped her horse’s mane, her hands tiny against its broad neck. Her heart had not slowed since she had left Maydestone behind. She tried not to think it, but it was frightening to be all by herself. Without her mother’s voice in the void, she was lost.
The river was impossible to see in the mist, but she could hear it, a cool rush of sound carrying easily through the wet air. This was an underwater morning, visibility clouded by the damp, sound her guide: the sensation was familiar from trips into the sea, but the luminescence of the mist around her, the bright white and the solid clump of her horse’s hooves below, were disturbing and strange. Anne thought again of the Bishop, but it was hard to visualise his face: no church bells had sounded, and the bubble of the distant Thames and the creak and sway of trees far off were the only signs of movement in the world. The further Anne rode, the harder it was to believe that time existed outside this moment, that anyone but her was real at all.
The river, when it appeared, was something of a surprise: a dark split in the earth, cutting a dingy stripe through the white air as she rode into view. Anne was almost bewildered as she faced it: after all her bold plans, there it was, nothing but a little runnel of muddy water, slippery-sided and striped with long, trailing weeds, their tendrils flowing in smooth straight lines down the path of the current like catkins hanging from a bough. She had followed the sound of it, but she realised now she should have followed the court paths, the landmarks she couldn’t see in the mist, should have gone miles downstream, because here, the river was shallower than she had expected. Disastrously shallow: if she lay face down and called, perhaps the sound might carry, but there were weed-choked beds for the sound to travel past, rocks and dips and cross-currents cutting off the echoes, and the chances of a deepsman hearing her from this vantage point were shockingly, heartbreakingly bad. Anne sat facing the river, the inadequate stream of her hopes clotted with reeds and mud, and tears started in her eyes. Her night of planning and morning of sneaking had come to this: a weedy stream, too empty to carry even a forlorn question out to sea.
Anne sniffled, and dropped her horse’s reins. She had come all this way. Even if she did no good here, she should try. Leaning over its neck, she realised something else: there was no groom to catch her as she dismounted, no block to aid her descent: there was nothing to do but fall off onto the wet ground if she wished to get down.
Things couldn’t get worse. Anne screwed her eyes shut and leaned sideways, letting herself fall. The knock as she hit the ground winded her, and she struggled to catch her breath: she could hold a lungful of air for fifteen minutes or more, and often did when situations around her got so tense that she wished to disappear; to be deprived of her cache of oxygen was terrifying. Her back hurt as she tried to straighten it, and her cramped lungs couldn’t open out; air groaned and scraped in her stricken throat, and Anne dug her fingers hard into the grass, trying not to panic. Closing her eyes, she pulled and pulled, fighting against her closed lungs until a mouthful of air dragged its way down and opened them out, flooding her chest with cool, soft mist. The relief was so great that she sat for long minutes, breathing and breathing, faster and deeper than she had ever done before, gorging herself on air.
Bruised and muddy, spendthrift in her breaths, Anne decided she wo
uld complete her quest. Her clothes were heavy, but she could unbutton and untie them herself, and once she’d wriggled out of them, she could crawl again, dirty knees and palms far less of a concern than spoiled fabric. The reeds around it were stiff and sharp-tipped, but she pushed them aside, reckless in the ridiculousness of her mission. The water was cold on her face as Anne dipped her head below the surface, the fresh taste of earth in her mouth, and called.
Bring us a horn, she cried. Bring us a horn. Bring us a horn. She repeated the chant, waiting for it to carry, waiting for the sound to carry forward. Anne lay face down in the water for a long time, sending her voice to carry on the current.
There was no answering call.
Anne sat up in the river, hip-deep and filthy. Splashing herself with the cleaner surface water, making deep cups with her webbed hands, she managed to get herself almost presentable, if dripping wet. To her dismay, she realised that there was no way to slip into the palace without explanation now. Erzebet would know she had been out alone. She would be angry. Maydestone would be punished for giving her the horse to ride. What was she to do?
Faced with the ruin of her clothing and the clammy cold of her hair, Anne’s fear returned. She wanted her mother, unreasoningly, even though her mother would be angrier at her than anyone else for this morning’s work. She wanted Edward, even Mary, anyone to take her home. But the Bishop was dying and Anne was trapped in this plant-thick, unswimmable river, and there would be trouble before anyone could make things right, and maybe nobody could.
The exhilaration of breathing again had passed. Anne had to bite her lips to stop herself from whimpering. The water around her legs was comforting, but even getting back onto her horse was going to be difficult without a block, even if it would stay still for her clamberings. Crawling out to the bank, Anne lay down and curled up, confused and wretched.
It was some time before she heard the sound of hooves. So startling was the noise that Anne sat up in panic, grabbing her clothing and dressing as fast as she could. The effect was untidy, but it was the best she could do. A moment’s anxious debate with herself, and she called out: “Who is there?”
There was the sound of a horse being reined in. “Your Majesty?” It was Maydestone’s voice.
Anne swallowed. “Come to me, please.”
“Can you ride to me, your Majesty?” Maydestone’s voice sounded out of the mist.
Anne shook her head, as if he could see her. “I cannot get on my horse.”
There was a pause, then the sound of hooves again. “Can you call to me, your Majesty?”
Anne was swallowed again by fear. Why had Maydestone followed her? How was she to explain herself? Idiocy seemed the only possible excuse. Anne composed her face in its stupidest lines and called again: I’m lost. Bad place. I’m lost.
Maydestone rode out of the mist, mounted on a slightly shabby black horse, less elegant in its lines and paces than her own. “Are you hurt, my lady Princess?” he said.
Let’s go back, Anne said.
Maydestone dismounted, crossing to her and taking her by the arms to examine her. “Are you hurt?” His voice was slow and clear, and persistent: he did not sound like a man who would be put off by answers in the wrong language.
“I am not hurt,” Anne said. “But I cannot get back on my horse. You must help me.”
She was trying for imperious, but Maydestone persisted, even as he gathered her up and set her on the saddle of her waiting horse. “Why are you wet, my lady Princess? Were you in the river?”
“Were you sent to look for me?” Anne’s nerves overcame her desire to be opaque. If Maydestone had been sent, it would be a measure of the trouble she was in.
Maydestone tugged her skirt straight with the same brisk gesture he’d have used to adjust a bridle. “No, my lady Princess. But no one followed you for half an hour, and I grew concerned. I beg your pardon, but it is a misty morning.” His voice was not quite conspiratorial, but it had a businesslike air of acceptance as he spoke of her misbehaviour.
“I should not have ridden off,” Anne said. Back on her horse, mounted like a princess, her muddy, wrecked skirt was becoming shaming. She hung her head, uncertain what to say.
Maydestone held her horse steady. “Why did you do so, my lady Princess?”
Anne considered for a moment speaking like a princess, commanding her privacy, but her state was too foolish. “I thought I could call into the river to ask the deepsmen for something,” she said.
Maydestone frowned. “I do not understand, my lady Princess.”
Anne gave an unhappy sigh. “I thought I could ask them to bring a unicorn’s horn next time they come,” she said. “I hear the—” Caution suddenly made her swallow. She had no reason to tell this man all she had heard. “I heard the Bishop—Bishop Westlake is sick. I read that such horns were good in cases of flux, but the doctor had none in his store.” She screwed her eyes shut, too embarrassed to say more. It had been such a far-fetched plan.
“Why, my lady Princess,” Maydestone’s voice said in the darkness behind her eyes, “why did you not ask an apothecary for one?”
Anne opened her eyes. “An apothecary?”
“A man who sells simples and medicines,” Maydestone said patiently. “There are apothecaries in every town.”
“I—do not know any,” Anne faltered.
Maydestone pulled on his beard for a moment. “I could go for you if you wish, my lady Princess,” he said.
Anne looked up in sudden hope.
“My lady Princess,” Maydestone said. “Did his Majesty ask for a horn?”
“No,” Anne confessed. “It was my own idea.” She cast around. The dress she wore was less jewelled than one for state occasions, but it was still ornate, with a few pearls sewn around the neck. And it was already in a bad state. A lost pearl could pass for truly “lost;” she need not account for its disappearance. Reaching up, she took one of them between her nails and gave a sharp tug. “Buy it with this,” she said. “If that will suffice. Please go to the town and fetch one. You need tell no one. And say nothing to the apothecary except that you want one, nothing at all; ask him nothing, tell him nothing. But please fetch one. Will you need another pearl?”
“No, my lady Princess,” Maydestone said, catching her hand as it reached up to pluck another one from her neck. “That will be ample, I think. More than ample.”
“Then keep the surplus,” Anne said. “Only be quick, please. The Bishop is sick.”
Maydestone bowed. He didn’t smile, just bowed obediently, then turned his attention back to her horse, but Anne had already learned something: some people could be trusted to oblige her if she asked. Whether Maydestone saw profit in the opportunity or was simply trying to save himself trouble when he realised she was out without permission, she couldn’t say, but she had come through the morning’s work, and heard about apothecaries. She was better off than she had expected. And she had learned something else, too: difficulties and all, it was possible to manage alone.
Erzebet was furious about her disappearance, and the state of her clothing on her return. Punishments followed, but Anne minded less than usual. Maydestone returned the next day and brought a piece of horn with him, enough, the apothecary had said, to treat three men. Anne, after some strategic planning of her usual ride, managed to slip it to John Claybrook, with instructions to pass it on to Shingleton.
Whether it was the horn that saved him or not, a few days later, it was announced that Bishop Westlake was out of danger. Edward ordered prayers of thanksgiving from the whole court. Mary bowed her head dutifully; Erzebet put her palms together with a fierce glare towards the floor. Neither of them looked at Anne, but then, neither of them knew she had got the medicine. Why she didn’t tell them, she couldn’t quite have said, but her instincts pressed her to secrecy. She bowed her head and gave thanks, pride and pleasure making her face glow with eerie light.
TWELVE
ON THE DAY the end began, Anne suspected n
othing.
Her lessons began as usual: she was closeted with her tutor, Lady Margaret Motesfont, a thin-faced woman with narrow brown teeth, whose satisfaction in following the progress of a fine piece of rhetoric was seldom matched by satisfaction in her pupil’s work. But Erzebet was due to make an inspection later that morning, so Anne applied herself, one ear cocked for the church bells as they tolled the passing hours, and one eye on the vellum, her pen scratching, struggling to trace answers to Lady Margaret’s difficult questions. The subject that day was an argument from Louis, King of France, a piece weighing the merit of the landsmen’s souls against the deepsmen’s, the question of what form of man most represented God’s image corporeally and spiritually. It was as well-argued as most such tracts, which was to say, its arguments were familiar, though Anne found it a little flat in expression and lacking in passion for the goodness of God; though she did not say so, she suspected that it might receive a little less attention were it not by a royal author. Then again, the language of the deep, Louis’s mother tongue, was hardly fit for poetic flourishes. The Bible spoke of the God that divided the waters and placed the firmament between them, but it was impossible to express the word “firmament” in the deepsmen’s language: it stopped at surface, the place where the water met the air, and anything beyond that could only be conveyed by the word up. As Anne persisted with Louis’s arguments, laid out in his stark French, tracing the inevitable conclusion that the person of the king mingled elements in the most perfect combination under Heaven—a conclusion she had little personal reason to quarrel with, but seldom applied to herself, being more interested in the notion of God as light than God as king—at the back of her mind was Erzebet, her forceful, blunt sentences in the deepsmen’s tongue and her sharp, laconic, careful English. The argument itself was not one that Erzebet had ever much bothered with; she merely sat on her throne while rhetoricians repeated it, still as a stone-faced Virgin.
In Great Waters Page 13