In Great Waters

by Kit Whitfield

  An icon of the Virgin stood in her chamber and watched over her as she slept, but its blank, landsman’s face was so strange to her that she had to close her eyes before praying to it, whispering words of entreaty in the cold dark behind her eyelids.

  Samuel Westlake was not a man to discuss what he had heard in confession, even with his adopted princess, but other information was at Anne’s disposal. What he could tell her, though, was painfully little.

  Erzebet had died scorched to the flesh with poison. That poison had come to her through her bathwater. Though she did not share her husband’s fragile skin, Erzebet, like most monarchs, enjoyed bathing; she would become curt and irritable if unable to wash herself at least every other day. Anne knew this; usually she herself bathed attended by maids, but there were some memories, from early in her life, in which Erzebet had sat in a tub while waiting women poured in brine from wooden buckets, dancing baby Anne in the water and trickling cool droplets over their bare skin. There had been a day, weeks before she died, when Anne had been bathing as usual and Erzebet had come in. The maids had set their buckets down to curtsey deeply, and Erzebet looked around in impatience, waving her hand and saying, “Carry on. No need to stop.”

  Anne had smiled up, droplets trickling down her face and pattering in the water around her. “Good morrow, my mother.”

  “Anne. Are you well?” Erzebet halted over to her on her canes. “Bring me a chair, Jane,” she said, turning to one of the maids, and Jane hastened to seat her mistress beside the tub.

  “I am, thank you.” Nakedness didn’t trouble Anne, being accustomed to swimming bare-skinned out to sea with her mother, but still, she was uncomfortably shy. When they swam, activity bound them together: there was a task, motion, purpose. To sit trapped in a wooden bath while her mother sat beside her was unfamiliar, and the thought of saying something foolish made Anne’s cheeks tingle.

  Erzebet reached out, tucked a lock of Anne’s hair behind her ear. “Good girl.”

  Anne bit her lip, too pleased to dare answer.

  Erzebet sat quietly. There seemed to be nothing to say.

  “A-are you well?” Anne managed.

  Erzebet looked at her daughter. There was a pause before she answered, just a few moments, as she exhaled. In a lesser woman, the sound would have been a sigh. “I am well in body, Anne. The state is never quite well.”

  “Are you tired?” Erzebet looked worn. There was a bruise on her collarbone that the rich dress did not quite hide, and her face was pallid, her eyes dark-rimmed. Though Anne’s heart beat hard at asking the question, she needed to know.

  Erzebet rarely smiled; her sharp teeth stayed sheathed, and her face was grave in cast. But there was a little softening of her lips as she said, “Somewhat. But we must always work, Anne.” Her hand trailed down into the bathwater, little drops from the sides of the tub marring her fine-worked sleeve. The gesture was a weary one, absent-minded, as if Erzebet hadn’t noticed she was dabbling her fingers in the soothing brine. Anne wished desperately to reach out and take her mother’s hand. She almost did, but she had not quite the courage. She sat and gazed at her mother’s face, soaking up her presence, knowing that very soon, she would go away again.

  Erzebet hadn’t been concerned about bathwater. She had swirled her hand in it idly. Food, she was careful of, and wine: tasters stood attendance, and whenever possible she would insist on fish carted from the sea in buckets, brought to her table knocking their tails against a trencher and killed safely before her eyes. But a bath had been a haven, a resting place. She had no fear of water.

  Brine. That was what she had loved. Landsmen might bathe in river water or well water, but for Erzebet, for Philip, for Anne, the water was saline, rich and strong. But Erzebet had not died on the coast, spent much of the year away from it. Seawater wasn’t easy to come by. Instead, attendants poured ladlefuls of salt into their buckets, stirred them with long sticks, making up the best palliative they could.

  Those bowls of salt sat open in the bath chambers. It would be easy to add something to them. And once it was added, Erzebet was condemned, death flowing in a white, whispering stream to dissolve in the bucket of water, ready to eat its way into her flesh.

  Philip asked frequently what had happened to Erzebet. That, at least, was probably what he meant when he tugged on Robert Claybrook’s arm, saying, “Wife? Wife?” The tugging was forceful: Anne could see Claybrook’s tall body jerked to and fro by the force of Philip’s importuning.

  The court met infrequently these days. Edward had been handing over power to Erzebet for years, but with Erzebet gone, disputes were beginning to be settled in private. Robert Claybrook and a neighbouring noble, John Forder, had a disagreement about some waterway rights; rather than bring it out in public, Edward spoke to the two men apart. It was Samuel Westlake who passed the news on to Anne: Edward had allocated the rights to Claybrook in very little time. The man who had charge of Philip could not easily be gainsaid.

  What Edward was doing was sending out ambassadors. Frequently when Anne saw her grandfather these days, he had a portrait in his hands. It was at a private audience that Anne learned the reason.

  Edward had gathered the remnants of his family together: Philip, Mary and Anne. There were a number of miniatures spread out on a table beside him. Anne, sitting quietly on a chair near her uncle, kept her hands folded in her lap, hoping that if she stayed still, Philip would not notice her: his sudden shouts were hard on her bruised nerves. Her uncle sat, unattended by the Privy Sponges for once, swathed in wet clothing. A white cloth wrapped around his head gave him the air of a corpse laid out for burial, and Anne shuddered. His great blank face staring out of that dank mass of fabric looked barely conscious.

  Edward made no preamble. “I shall announce this to the court in due course,” he said. “But you should know, Mary, Anne, that I have sent ambassadors to the courts of Spain, France, Venice and Flanders, asking whether their sons are interested in an alliance.”

  “An alliance?” Mary’s pink cheeks were paler these days. Though still short in stature as a princess always would be, she was growing, rising above Anne, the beginnings of a swell at her chest. Since Anne had started going to Westlake for her education, the two girls had spent less time together. Though Anne could not forgive Mary her innocence of the true cause of Erzebet’s death, she had been surprised at how pleased she felt at seeing her sister. Mary looked taller, but not happier. The gap in their ages seemed smaller now than it once had, and Anne could see that her sister was looking young and lost.

  Edward’s face was grave. “You are young to be married, my dear, but not too young. We must look to the throne.”

  Mary said nothing for a moment. Then she swallowed, and gave her grandfather a brave smile. “As Your Majesty says.” Her face was wan.

  Anne spoke up uninvited. “This is good news for you, Mary. You shall be Queen. You will have a fine husband.” Anne, simpleton of the court, fully expected Mary to be the great prize in marriage. Beautiful Mary, heir presumptive, next in line after Philip. The throne of England stood ready for the man who married her. Mary could command her own price.

  “I shall see to it,” Edward said. “I have had limners working to take portraits of the princes of Europe.” His tone was reassuring, though the words were formal. Anne considered for a moment. Portraits were by their nature flattering; she had seen enough rosy-cheeked, delicate-featured paintings of herself to have realistic expectations about how accurate they were. But the issue was a crucial one. Idiocy was in the family, the tree was tangled root and branch, cousins marrying cousins until catastrophes like Philip came forth, thick-tailed and staring. Most of the courts of Europe were peopled by close relations. Angelica’s line had branched, but it had interbred, tangling in on itself. The choice was not an easy one. Their father could be free of his choice, more or less, because he was finding a wife, but a husband, a King, was a political choice as much as a fleshly one. To bring a wife to court, to integrate
her and subordinate her nationality to his, was one thing. But to bring in a husband, a man who would hold the throne himself? A man who could father healthy children and also be accepted as a King of England? At that moment, Anne could think of no one.

  She looked at her sister. Mary sat, head lowered, hands still in her lap, her eyes fixedly down. The idea of children being born by that small body was a frightening one. Anne resolved to pray harder, maybe take the veil, take herself out of the succession altogether rather than lower her body into such turbulent waters. But who would care for Mary if she were gone?

  “There is also the question of your husband, Anne.” Edward’s voice cut across Anne’s anxieties; he spoke gently, but she started nonetheless.

  “Me?” She couldn’t think of anything to say. Mary was the older one, the prettier, the pink-faced beauty of the family. Mary would have a husband. But her, Anne? Her blue face and meagre body traded out to some foreign man?

  “We face a problem, Anne,” Edward said. “We need sons for the throne. You know that. We will find a husband for Mary, he can rule with her, and if they have sons, all will be well. But we have to be sure. If, God forbid, ill health should befall your sister, we could not afford you to be out of the country.”

  Mary looked at Edward, then at Anne, her face pale. Edward put it carefully, but there was no doubt what he meant. Not every woman was able to bear children. Not every woman survived childbirth. If Mary’s body wasn’t strong enough for the task, Anne would be needed. England might be pinning its hopes on Mary’s pretty face, but it could not afford to go without a spare.

  Mary lowered her eyes, her mouth closed. It was a good effort, but Anne had felt eyes on her faulty face too often not to know humiliation when she saw it. She leaned towards Mary, reaching out her hand; things were changing too fast, but she could not see her sister’s face shutter like that without reaching out to her. Mary did not clasp the fingers Anne extended, but she didn’t pull away either. She sat still, her countenance controlled, as Anne squeezed her dainty, fragile hand.

  “But this presents us with a difficulty,” Edward was saying. “If you were to marry into a foreign court, your choices would be greater. But to find a prince willing to leave his own court and live in England with little promise of the throne—that will be difficult. If we wish to find a good husband for you. And we do, Anne. I have sent ambassadors. But you must understand why you may have to be patient.”

  As Edward explained, Mary’s fingers curled around Anne’s, and Anne felt humiliation burn cold in her own cheeks. More than humiliation: horror. She had not thought of it before, had not considered herself married; it had been her mother’s attention she wanted all her life, not a husband’s. But Edward was right. For any prince to come to England and live all his life as the husband of a spare: that was a poor marriage to offer any man. The kings of Europe had sons enough, but what father would throw away a precious son on such a bargain? Edward did not say it, but she knew what he meant. For any prince to be willing to come and strike such a bargain, there would have to be something wrong with him.

  “We shall find you a good husband.” Edward’s tone was earnest; his head was bent from decades of hunching over staffs, but he leaned forward a little. His manner had always been too formal to reach out to them; he had never embraced and kissed like Erzebet, never clasped hands like Anne and Mary, but there was concern in his face. Anne gripped Mary’s fingers tighter, newly grateful. Since Erzebet had died, there had been few caresses.

  “I understand your Majesty,” she said, her voice not quite steady. There was nothing to do but be brave. Would Edward marry her to a diseased prince? The idea was inconceivable, he was her grandfather and he was leaning forward as if he loved her—but he had married Erzebet to Philip. Philip’s idiocy was legendary throughout Europe, but he was not the only monster to come out of the house of Delamere. There was more than one king with a son he would be pleased to see carefully disposed of, married to a reasonably healthy girl, out of sight, ready to beget sons that might survive the inbreeding better than their father had. Philip could beget no one, but there were others who could. Anne struggled desperately to believe that her grandfather would not sell her to such a man.

  “You must find Anne a good husband.” Mary’s voice was sharper than usual. She sounded peremptory, royal, but under the abruptness was a note of hysteria.

  “Our ambassadors will see to it,” Edward said. “We do not take this lightly.”

  “I will—” Mary stopped. For a wild moment, Anne wondered if she had been going to say that she would not marry well unless Anne did. That would have been reckless, throwing the nation into hazard, hundreds of thousands of souls, to speak up for her sister; it would have been sinful. If that had been her thought, she would have had reason to bite it back. But Anne knew, even in that moment, that she would never ask Mary what she had been going to say, for fear of hearing that it might be something else.

  There was nothing to be said. Time with her family was a rare thing, but Anne needed to be alone. If she could get into church and pray, if she could reach out to God, perhaps there would be some comfort. She had to get out of that room and pray, before she lost her courage.

  “You shall be a happy wife, Mary,” Anne said. “I shall pray for us both.” With an effort, she levered herself out of her chair. Her intention was to go closer to Mary and give her a kiss, but as she spoke, Philip roused himself from his stupor.

  “Wife?” he said. His voice echoed around the room; Philip could never moderate his volume, and it rang off the stone walls loud enough to make Anne’s ears buzz.

  “Philip,” Edward said. The word was clipped, but Philip seemed not to notice.

  “Your wife is in Heaven, my uncle,” Anne said, making her way for Mary and using a phrase she had heard Claybrook say to Philip many a time. The words were spoken numbly: it was hard to imagine Erzebet in a state of bliss. Since her bloody death, Anne had tried hard, but however many times she tried, she couldn’t remember seeing Erzebet smile.

  “Wife,” Philip said. His great hand reached out and caught Anne as she reached past him, locking around her wrist and pulling her to him. His fingers, dank and sticky, fastened themselves around her ankle, reaching under her heavy skirt to grab it.

  “Wife,” he said.

  Anne gasped, struggling like a hooked fish, trying to get away, but Philip was impossibly strong. She could hear her grandfather making sharp commands, but Philip wasn’t listening. His grip was hard enough to bruise, and he was pulling her to and fro on his lap, rubbing her body against his; she could feel the tension as he dragged her back and forth, yanking her arms like a child shaking a frustrating toy.

  Anne turned her head and bit, sinking her teeth into Philip’s hand. There was a roar of pain that sang in her ears, and he shoved her. Anne hit the floor so fast that she rolled over like a dropped bundle, skirt tangled around her legs and her side smarting from the crash against the stone flags. She looked up dizzily, tears closing her throat, unable to speak.

  “Philip, you must not seize people like that,” Edward said. His voice was trying to sound sharp, but there was a quaver in it, an old man’s shudder. The skin on his face was fragile, like cobwebs that might tear at a touch. It suddenly struck Anne that her grandfather was dying.

  NINETEEN

  ANNE DID NOT KNOW how she lived through the time that followed. Day followed day with nothing but a crushing sense of anticipation, a dread of something unknown. Every morning she woke tight-chested and breathless, the air of her room pressing down on her as if she had dived fathoms too deep. Day after day she presented a limpid face to the court and hid whenever she could, riding her horse by the river and staring into its brown depths, wishing to dive in, shake off her heavy gown and swim away into the sea where no one could find her. But the sea was no refuge. Edward could not accompany Anne and Mary; no deepsmen would follow a king so old and frail. Anne dreamed of joining the deepsmen, of growing long and muscu
lar like them, strong enough to fight for herself, but her small body was no defence against anyone. The next blessing of the waters, Mary and Anne set off together into the deeps while a reduced court sat on the shores, none of the usual retinue but only Edward, Robert Claybrook, Archbishop Summerscales and a few other great men, watching silently as the girls stripped and submerged themselves in the grey surf, ready to swim out. Edward had spoken to them quietly on the way, advised them on how to speak—childish words asking for friendship, for care—and Mary was prepared to begin such a chant, but at the thought, Anne’s heart sank. The deepsmen would not long protect a country with only children at its helm. It was strength they respected, not appeals to their better nature. Anne pinched her mouth tight and gripped Mary’s wrist as they set out, telling her quietly in the underwater language: Be careful. Stay silent. And Mary only nodded, twisting her wrist out of Anne’s grip and reaching to take her hand. To stay in sight of one another was in no way necessary, but Anne held her sister’s hand, grateful for the momentary comfort.

  Out in the bay, the deepsmen seemed vast, long-bodied like horses and great-armed like blacksmiths. Mary began by chanting a greeting, but the voices boomed around them: Are you alone? Had they no support, or was it down to them, two young girls in the sea?

  Mary’s hand tightened on Anne’s, and Anne steadied herself in the water. There was nothing for it but a bold face.

  Click, she said, naming the strongest of the deepsmen. It was guesswork, memory, terrible risk, but if she didn’t dare it now, they were lost. Rattle. The names were untranslatable, but she remembered them from happier times, like the names in a favourite story from childhood. Anne held herself up in the water and named each of them, identifying them. She named each of them in turn, then put on her boldest face. My sister, she said. Me.