In Great Waters

by Kit Whitfield

  Henry’s horse, overtaxed and frantic, shied back, rising on its hind legs with a sudden jolt that shook Henry in the saddle. As the man made another grab for its reins it reared again, and Henry was falling, the ground slamming into him, leaf litter and earth and horse’s legs all around him.

  As the man who had been reaching for his horse dismounted, Henry was filled with a wild disbelief. This couldn’t be. An hour ago, he had been safe, this had not been happening, and if he had ridden in another direction he would be alone now, alone and secure. He could reach back in his mind, touch that time, it was so close. It seemed impossible that he could not undo the terrible mistake that had led him to these people.

  A hand was gripping him. Henry kept his head down, desperately hiding in his hood, but then a hand reached forward and yanked it from his face. There was a cry of, “There!” and Henry saw, in the red faces of the four men surrounding him, the scarlet skin and fair hair and blue eyes that were so alien beside his own features. He was exposed, white-skinned and black-eyed and sharp-toothed, his face naked before strangers.

  He could fight these men. Landsmen were weak. All of them had swords hanging from their belts, and Henry reared up and made a grab for the nearest. His hand closed around its hilt, but the owner’s arm chopped down on his, forearm on bony forearm, and Henry lost his balance, his weak legs toppling him back on the ground. If he had his axe, if he had something to lean on—

  Something looped around him, pinning his arms to his sides. A rope. A man was crouching at his side, a dagger in his hand, pointing it at Henry’s throat. “Be still, bastard,” he said. “Do not stir.” Skilled hands were tying Henry’s wrists behind his back, rope cutting into his skin.

  There was something in the way these landsmen moved. They each acted separately, yes, but together they were more than him. One standing over him, one looking to their horses, keeping look-out, one at his back tying his hands, one at his throat with a blade. There was a kind of synchrony to their movements that he remembered from his days in the sea, so many years ago now, when the tribe had closed in on its prey.

  They had hunted him in a pack. They were armed, they acted together, and together they had run him down. Henry had wanted the sight all his life, and now, for the first time, he was seeing soldiers.

  TWENTY-TWO

  PHILIP HAD NEVER much cared for Mass, and today was no different; as Archbishop Summerscales stood at the altar, intoning the liturgy, he lolled in his pew, banging his hands against the wood of his seat to entertain himself with the noise, occasionally saying something in the deepsmen’s language—move on; hungry. The deepsmen didn’t have a word for “bored,” though clearly that was his problem. Robert Claybrook rose from his seat to try and calm Philip down. He leaned over his prince, spoke quietly into his ear.

  “No,” said Philip, giving him a push. It wasn’t aggressive, just the light shove of a child uninterested in a toy being offered him—but Philip was strong, and Claybrook took a hard step back to maintain his balance.

  Summerscales raised his voice a little, but he was an old man, no match for Philip’s bellow.

  “Mary?” Philip said. He seldom bothered with names when people were actually around him, but since Mary had been sent to France—an insult to the Crown of England, that she had to cross the seas to meet her consort when it was her country that would be ruled, but one that Edward, coughing now and growing more fragile by the day, was in no condition to dispute—he had remembered her name well enough to ask about her. He didn’t seem to miss her, but the explanation (Princess Mary has gone to visit a friend, she will be home soon and happy to see us) seemed to please him, and he enjoyed hearing it repeated.

  Anne sat alone in her pew, hands pressed together. Mary had given her a gift before she left, a silver and gold crucifix. It hung on the wall of Anne’s chamber. The pearl cross that Erzebet had given her Anne wore daily, she would not part with it; Mary must have realised Anne would not want a pendant, must have put some consideration into the gift. Anne had not thought to give Mary anything. She had been carried in a separate litter down to the docks as the court went to see Mary off; they had embraced briefly, too briefly for conversation: everyone’s eyes were on them, and Edward had been coughing, Philip complaining, the captain of the ship—a man of consequence, brother to the Baron of Tyne—standing on the gangplank, ready to carry Mary up himself. He wasn’t quite managing to keep from turning his eye to the flapping sails, haste to get underway in every line of his body. Mary had whispered, “Pray for me,” and Anne had kissed her cheek, anxious at Mary’s departure. That Mary had asked for her prayers tugged at her: Mary knew how much time she spent in prayer, knew it was the right thing to ask. And then the captain had come forward, lifted Mary up, and Mary’s weak legs dangled awkwardly as she was carried on board before Anne could think of an equally suitable farewell. Anne raised her hand, but Mary was slung in his arms like a parcel, her head concealed behind his shoulder, and Anne did not think that Mary saw her wave goodbye.

  Philip pushed at Claybrook again as Claybrook attempted to explain it. He turned his head, saying again, “Mary!” He spoke pointedly to Westlake.

  Westlake quietly left the altar where he had been standing in attendance. The click and scrape of his cane on the stone floor caused most people in the chapel to turn their heads aside, reluctant to witness his offensive ownership of a royal object. Reaching Philip, he sat down beside him. Anne could see in the stoop of his legs that it was easier for him to sit than it had been before Philip had given him a staff.

  “Princess Mary has gone to visit a friend …” Westlake said, his voice cheerful and calm. The explanation was, in fact, of Westlake’s devising. Mention of sailing the sea, ships and marriage were all subjects that agitated Philip and led to demands, frustration, raucous clamouring for things he couldn’t have. Claybrook had attempted to reason with Philip, but he had had to accept the formula Westlake improvised one day when Philip had pulled him over to question him: it was incomplete, but it worked. Philip never tired of it.

  Samuel’s leg was easier, but there was something in the stillness of his hands that made Anne anxious. Philip was on the pew opposite hers, she was out of his reach, and Samuel was good at calming him down before the word “wife” occurred to him. The dread that he would grab at her did not retreat, but it calmed, just a little, when Samuel stood between them. Samuel’s face was impassive as ever, but Anne could still feel it. He was tense about something.

  Robert Claybrook bowed, backed away to his own seat. His face was as stiff as an icon.

  As Philip subsided, Westlake rose again, ready to resume his place. He walked past Anne, a little slower than usual; slower than she knew he was capable of. As he passed her, he did not turn his head, but he spoke in a whisper that only her ears could ever have caught.

  “My lady Princess, I must speak with you alone.”

  Anne lingered after the service was over, hands blamelessly folded and eyes closed, trailing a rosary over her fingers. No one would disturb the Princess at prayer. The congregation filed out, and Anne waited, whispering under her breath. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death …”

  It was some time before she heard Westlake’s approach. She finished her decade and laid down her beads. “What is it, Samuel?” she said. “Have you any news of my mother?”

  “News of my mother” was how she referred to Erzebet’s death and the questions it had created; it was the only way she could describe it. There had been too little news. Samuel had sent men to make discreet enquiries of apothecaries, but no poison had been found capable of creating such devastation, no one remembered selling any. He had sent spies and asked questions, to no avail. The thought of an answer made Anne’s hands tremble a little, and she folded them carefully in her lap.

  Westlake shook his head. “No, my lady Princess. It is another matter.”

  He stopped, and Anne looked at him in bewilderment. Self-contained
Samuel, her grave confessor, was shaking.

  “What is it, Samuel?” she repeated. “If something troubles you, be assured of my aid.”

  Samuel swallowed. “My lady Princess,” he said. “I have news that I must trust to someone. I do not know what to do. Can I trust your silence?”

  “Of course.” Anne reached out and put an anxious hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  Samuel cleared his throat. “I must explain something to you, my lady Princess. You know—you do know, I am certain, that a bastard was executed this year.”

  Anne nodded. Erzebet’s static face and oblique lectures on the need for a prince to be strong. That empty day when everyone was gone and no one would tell her where.

  “There were rumours, my lady Princess … No one likes a burning.” Westlake rubbed his face. It was a strange gesture for him, freer than usual. Anne had never seen him sit so loosely, as if he were not observed, as if he were alone. “It was a hard business, the burning of a child. And there were rumours afterwards.”

  “Rumours?”

  Samuel nodded. “The burning took place on Robert Claybrook’s land, not far from here. His priest is a man from the North, John Bridgeman, a good man—a cousin of mine, my lady Princess. We went into the Church together, though he never rose so high as to come to court. But the people of his parish, they were afraid. They swore they had seen a ghost there.”

  “A ghost?” Anne shook her head in nervous bewilderment. Bad omens meant disaster for England, the wrath of God, even. God wanted his people to be merciful. Samuel had been right all along, and Erzebet—Erzebet had been wrong. They should not have burned a child.

  “The child’s soul, they said, seated on horseback, the child grown into a man. I did not—well, vengeance is the Lord’s, and he judges as he chooses. His ways are not known to us. But the rumour troubled me, my lady Princess. So I asked my cousin to spare me a favour. Some of his parishioners are soldiers, good men, trustworthy. They had not liked the burning either.” Samuel rubbed his face again, raising a little colour in the cheeks. “I asked my cousin, and he asked them. They kept a watch on my lord Claybrook’s land. They did not tell their master they did so.”

  Anne blinked. This was a great betrayal of their lord, even if a bishop had asked it. They must have hated the burning. It must have been terrible indeed.

  “My lady Princess, I thought it might be a ghost. But I thought it might be a man of flesh, also. I—I do not care for burnings. My lady Princess, I was there, blessing the flames, praying for those people’s souls. I hope I shall live and die an Englishman and loyal to your Majesties, but I wish never again to see such a sight.” The colour stayed in his cheeks, and his voice rose. Anne swallowed. The sight of Samuel angry was so strange, so unfamiliar, that she drew back a little, frightened. “But I could not stand by if there was another bastard in the land.”

  Distracted as Anne was, the word took a moment to filter through. “A—another bastard? Do you think it could be?”

  Samuel turned to her. She could see his pupils, wide and black, filling his eyes. “My life is in your hands, my lady Princess,” he said. “The soldiers found him. I have him locked in my house.”

  BOOK FOUR

  DISCOVERY

  TWENTY-THREE

  HENRY COULD REMEMBER the first time he saw a building, a great towering rock of straight-sided stones, Allard’s arms wrapped around him and the jolting steps leading to a square, oppressive room, bound hands and rank food and nothing to do but bite his sticks and worry at the walls. The sensation of ropes around his wrists filled him with a childish terror, a panic so stark that as the soldiers tied him to his saddle, the trees of the forest stiffened around him, forming bars, an enclosing canopy of leaves trapping him, and he leaned up on his saddle as if to swim up through them, break the green surface and draw breath in the white, clear air above. But as he yearned upwards towards the green, a man came and placed a sack over his head, and Henry heard the coarse-woven hemp rustle in his ears with the sound of a crackling fire.

  It was a long ride, a harsh one. At nightfall the soldiers stopped to rest their horses and built a fire to warm themselves; one of them pulled up Henry’s hood and offered him some meat. Henry saw the man’s face, blue eyes and sallow skin, but gave no answer, instead baring his teeth and snapping at him. The soldier dropped the hood with a jump and left him sitting there, saying only, “We had better tie his legs.” So Henry slept bound hand and foot, the open air parting around him, sounds on all sides of rustling leaves and shrilling birds and the scampering of small-footed mice, all within his hearing and out of his reach and no help to him now.

  Blindfolded, he was brought to a house and bundled inside. Henry fought the arms carrying him and, outnumbered as he was, gained nothing for his struggles but a sudden drop to the floor, cracking his head, followed by a swift recapture and a march up some narrow stairs, his body swinging in a helpless pendulum between his stretched arms and legs.

  A door creaked, they entered a room, and the soldiers dropped him and left him. Henry scrambled up immediately, pressed his bound hands against his covered face to bring the sackcloth to his sharp teeth and began chewing. His mouth filled with grit and threads, but he persisted, teeth and jaws aching with haste, until he had a hole in the sack wide enough to let the ropes through, biting until they too parted, leaving him free to untangle his head and unbind his feet, ready to fight.

  But as the hours went by, he found that his speed had been wasted. He sat in an oak-floored room, whitewashed walls and beams overhead and nothing to see through the narrow window but a green lawn, and nobody in sight. It was a full day before anyone came to the door.

  The creak of the hinges flooded Henry with terror; his mind flashed full of soldiers, strong numerous men ready to drag him to the stake. Mixed with the fear was a desperate anger, fury at the waste of it, all those years preparing himself, learning how to use weapons, bracing himself for a conflict that would never come. Sixteen years, sea and land. Even in the ocean, he could have lived another decade before some predator took him, maybe two or even three, a lowering mouth and sharp teeth and a swift severing of his life. Not this. Not blazing red flames and hundreds of strangers crowding round while he screamed his life out on the pyre.

  The door opened, and no soldiers came through it; only a man with a pale face and lame leg, leaning his weight on a stick, a stool under his arm. There was a moment of hope at the sight, that perhaps this man might be something like him if he had to walk on a cane, that he might help Henry rather than burn him—but then the anger settled back, gripping his muscles tight against the bones. Henry recognised his face. This was the man who had stood before the bonfire, had stood in the shuddering heat and muttered Latin while the little boy burned. The man was here for his life.

  Henry retreated, bared his teeth. If he only had his axe, he could deal with this man.

  The man stood over him, tilted his head for a second. “Do you have a name?” he said.

  Henry clamped his mouth. He was not going to plead.

  The man settled himself on the stool. “Losquerisne Latine?” he said. Henry swallowed. Latin, the bane of his childhood, the language this man had chanted at the fire. He did not speak it, would not, was furiously glad he had never learned.

  “Français? Italiano? Deutsch?” The man paused, then shook his head. “You would hardly have swum here from Italy, would you? Come now, my boy, answer me. I know you understand me.”

  Henry fought the impulse to shake his head. He was not going to give this man the satisfaction.

  “Perhaps—look at me,” the man said. Holding his fingers together, he sketched a gesture in the air, a wide-armed wave that ended palm-to-chest. It was a motion Henry had seen before, not a deepsman-to-deepsman pose—no landsman could reproduce those out of the water, and probably not that easily in it either—but he had seen adults of the tribe showing it to children as they swam up to greet the ships. No one had explained what it meant, thoug
h. Henry kept his face blank, said nothing.

  His questioner sighed. “My name is Samuel Westlake,” he said. “I would like to know yours. Will you favour me?” The question was met with silence, but, to Henry’s discomfort, it did not seem to bother the man. No smiles like Claybrook, no anxious scribbling like Allard; he simply sat there, let the silence hang. Henry felt in that moment a longing for Allard, his anxious courtesy and his long explanations, that was stronger than anything he had ever felt in Allard’s presence. Allard had been right. He should have stayed home.

  Westlake nodded. “You have lasted a long time,” he said. “Whoever took you in should be congratulated. What did they call you? Richard? William? Philip? Henry? Edward?”

  Henry could not quite suppress a flinch at the sound of his own name, but he caught himself quickly, hoping the man had not noticed. The word Henry had leaped out of the litany like a slap, leaving him shaking. How was this murderer able to grab so quickly at his name?

  Westlake caught the flinch, and shook his head. “My dear son, there is no mystery. No one would have taken you in who did not have thoughts of the throne. If they wished you to wear a king’s crown, you needed a king’s name. There are only so many names to choose from.”

  So that was all the thought Allard had put into his name. The homesick nostalgia that had gripped him a moment ago was replaced by a heartsick fury. The name had come to him when he was still unable to speak, when English was a foreign tongue and the words meant nothing. It had been bestowed without explanation, like a law of nature. But there was no art to it, nothing profound. Just a choice off a list. The country had a Philip alive, and an Edward, a William recently dead. Allard had preferred Henry to Richard, and that was all. Even his name was not his own.