In the gloom, he thought he recognised another man, and a woman beside him. People sometimes swam off alone, joined other tribes. When he was little, his family had been almost entirely nomadic. There had been some changes of custom, perhaps, a few changes of side in the time he had been gone. But these were not strangers to him. Their dialect was familiar, and so were their faces.
Who would have thought it? Henry thought. After all this time, I am a Frenchman after all.
The leader had not been too bad, he recalled. Older than him, ready as any to deal out a twisted ear or a pinch if someone became too tiresome, but not by nature a bully. Quick in a hunt, disinclined to steal food. A steady character. Very probably he was popular with his tribe.
Henry had come prepared to do battle. Remembering how a rope had defeated the English tribe, he had swum armed, even though the weapons dragged against his streamlined body a little: a rope around his waist, spurs on his heels. But now, recognising this man, he did not feel like a fight.
I know you, Henry said, naming his new-found friend. I am no stranger. Your landsmen are strangers. You are my tribesman.
The leader swam forwards, scanned Henry’s face. What is your name? he asked. Around him, others were poised to fight. Henry could see the massive arms and tail, the mighty body he was trying to talk himself out of fighting. This was a splendid man indeed. He had thrived in the sea.
Whistle, he said. I have been away a long time.
THIRTY-SIX
ANNE SAT in the church and lifted up her heart, or tried to. The news was not good. Intelligence returned fact after fact about the French: their strong navy, their popular king, their healthy sons. England’s navy was not bad, but they would have to meet in the Channel to keep the French out. There were English deepsmen to protect their own shores, but they were not a guarantee, not if the French deepsmen came in support of their own ships. Country would fight against country, and tribe against tribe.
It could not be what God wanted. God could not create life and love killing, whatever politicians or theologians could argue about it.
She needed to talk to Mary. But what could she say to her? Do not start a war to get what you want; let me have it instead? She might as well send a letter saying Surrender at once so that we can both be happy.
Could God be against them? It was a hard question, but Anne was a prince, she told herself. Princes did not turn the hard questions aside. She had said to herself that she would protect the Church, that Henry might be a pagan but that God might exempt the deepsmen from such concerns. But by blood, Henry was as much a deepsman as she. If God could touch her heart, he could touch Henry’s. Should she have tried harder to convert him? Should she have given way and handed the kingdom to the Christian French? She had begun this with no greater aim than keeping a strange boy from the stake. Now she was within a vow of the throne, ready to begin a war.
And, it could not be forgotten, very possibly pregnant as well.
It was hard to hear God when her mind was so troubled. And troubled it was. Samuel had not spoken to her since she had told him that she would ask Summerscales to rewrite the vows. He had looked at her, and backed away. There was something about his face. Angry with her, perhaps: he would have a right to be. Concerned for her soul. Betrayed, even; though she had never been the theologian he had, Anne knew full well that a heathen king in Christendom was, at best, a dispensation she did not have the spiritual authority to grant. But that wasn’t what troubled her.
Samuel looked at her, and his face was frightened.
“Tell me the truth,” Anne said to John. “Did your father write to my sister?”
John had come before her, asked for an audience. His pleasant face was paler these days, and he smiled less. When he came into her presence, he brought with him a bag. Guards had tried to take it off him, but Anne intervened. Even if he had a weapon, she thought she could hold her own.
It was not a weapon he brought in his pack. John bowed before her, and drew out letters.
“I have letters here,” he said. “They were to my father. He does not know I took them.”
“Are they from France?” Anne’s heart sounded in her ears, a faint echo of the surf.
John bit his lip for a moment, then handed them to her. “They are.”
The letters sat in her lap, cold and brittle.
“So you have chosen your side,” Anne said.
John lowered his head for a moment, then raised it. “I have,” he said. “I do not want a war.”
The letters were partial, referred to other letters, but their message was clear enough. There would be a force on the shores to sabotage the English fleet should it go out to meet the French. Ships were being built, small ships with harpooners aboard. There was no reference to their use, but Anne understood.
“You said that you went on a porpoise hunt when you were young,” she said to John, looking up.
John did not need to ask which letter she was reading from. “Yes, your Majesty,” he said. “There are older men enough who know how to spear from the water. And if you read the next one, you will see talk of nets.”
The deepsmen had been a bane to her, but at the thought of them tangled in ropes, Anne shivered. With sailors battled on the shore and deepsmen hunted beyond it, France could sail across the Channel and step onto English soil unopposed.
“And what for us?” Anne said. Her voice was hoarse. “A bath of boiling water? A pyre and a stake?”
John shook his head. “I stole these letters,” he said. “I know no more. But …”
“Speak,” Anne said.
John did not answer for a moment. “Perhaps you should read the next one,” he said. “Your Majesty.”
Anne read. The handwriting was disguised, impossible to identify for sure. She did not think it was Samuel’s. But there was no question that it was from a priest. A line stood out at her: Better a battle now than the fires of Hell. I shall speak to the Bishop.
There were other Bishops than Samuel. And even if he had been spoken to, Anne told herself, there was no proof that he supported it. But Samuel was a man who heard rumours. He had come to her with Henry. He had found Henry because he listened to whispers, and he had brought him to her.
He had not spoken to her of any of this.
Anne’s eyes stung. “Bishop Westlake is a man of peace,” she said. Her voice wavered, uncertain and childish. “He risked the pyre himself to save Henry from it. He would not wish for a war.” The words cracked in her mouth and a tear ran down her face. She scrubbed at it, desperate and angry. She could not afford to cry now, she could not afford weakness.
“My lady, please do not cry.” John was beside her, his hand on hers. “Please do not cry.”
My lady, not your Majesty. Had she weakened so fast in his eyes? But John’s hand on hers was warm, and she looked at his face. It was not contemptuous. He looked a little frantic, as if uncertain what to do, but there was honest distress there. He said again, “Please do not cry,” and Anne swallowed.
“You have always wished to be a good friend,” she said. Her voice was not steady yet; it came out small and tired. “Have you not?”
John gave a sigh, a little hiss of air like the sound of something falling. “I have,” he said. “But we do not seem free to do as we wish in this world.”
Anne blinked. “You said that once before,” she said. “When I met you riding in the forest. Do you remember? Before the—the burning in Cornwall.”
John nodded. His hand was still on hers. “I recall,” he said. His mouth quirked, and he gave a sad little laugh. “You were always riding up to us in the forest and overhearing things. It made my father very nervous. You have good ears, my—your Majesty.” As he said this, John looked down at his hand, still resting on hers, and pulled it away.
“Deepsmen do,” Anne sighed.
John laughed again. It was a short sound, but good to hear. “I know. Henry could hear me from miles away. I warned my father about it. After
that, he stopped saying anything out of doors. You should have been an intelligencer, your Majesty.”
Anne leaned her head back against her chair. “Henry said he would adopt any bastards found. They might make good intelligencers.”
John looked a little startled. “He means to adopt bastards?”
Anne shrugged. “Perhaps. He does not care for burnings, any more than any of us do, I think. He says they could carry messages up and down the shores, more detailed messages than the deepsmen could remember. He is full of ideas for them. I can well believe it would be a threat to the throne if there were too many people in line for it, though. You might as well have landsmen kings like the Switzers.”
John gave a shadow of his old grin. “The Switzers do not have many civil wars, I think.”
“That is true,” Anne said. She thought about it. “They do not.”
John didn’t answer. The two of them sat side by side.
“What would have become of Mary,” Anne said after a while, “if your father had raised an army and led Henry to the throne?”
The look of happiness left John’s face. “Your Majesty, I have begged forgiveness, I will beg again if—”
“I only wish to know,” Anne said. “I do not ask to trouble you, John. I have few enough friends in this world.”
John blinked, then answered. “It would have depended how your royal family fought, I suppose. Perhaps he might have married her. Or imprisoned her. I—I intended to ask clemency for you. I, I liked you. I did not know your sister so well.”
Anne checked herself. It had not happened, there was no cause to get upset. “A chancy business, this clemency.”
“Your Majesty, I am sorry.”
Anne looked down at the letters. “Do you expect clemency for your father?”
John did not look, looked away from her lap, into the distance. “Your Majesty has been merciful in the past,” he said. “You married a bastard to save him from the pyre.”
“I did,” Anne said. “But …” There was no point in going on. Too much to be said, and too little to be gained by saying it. “I have heard there are great mountains in Switzerland,” she said. “Black rocks and crags that no army can cross. Or almost none.”
“I have heard that.”
“I wish we had mountains,” Anne said. “You do not need to treat with mountains to make them keep your borders secure.”
“Your Majesty,” said John. “Can we avoid a war?”
“Henry thinks so,” Anne said. “I will—speak with my sister. We shall see.”
“Your Majesty,” John said. “I—have more news for you. More ill news. I am sorry.”
Anne looked into John’s face. His hands were twisting together, as if crushing an invisible letter between them. “What is it?”
“I—have spoken to Master Shingleton.”
Anne’s heart beat faster. Though the room was large and clear, there did not seem to be enough air to fill her chest. John’s face was drawn, and one of his legs trembled a little, as if he was struggling not to get up and run.
He did not speak. Anne spoke for him. She could see it in his face. Now she could see it, she realised she must have known it for some time.
“How long has my grandfather been dead?” she said.
John’s eyes went white around the centres, and Anne swallowed the burst of tears rising in her throat.
“It was—loyal of him to keep it quiet until the succession is clear,” she said. Her voice dragged, but she could form the words. “But … it is time we buried his body.”
She heard John’s breath catch as he inhaled. “Did you hear this yourself, your Majesty?” he said.
Anne shook her head. “It needed no special ears. I … am not a fool, that is all.” She closed her eyes for a second. Tears splashed out, and she pressed her fingertips to them. It would only upset John if she started crying again. “I wish I could have been with him. But his soul is free now. It was loyal of Master Shingleton, but we must be done now. He must have a Christian burial. It will take only one ship.” Anne drew a long breath. She could get air enough to last her. “We shall have a funeral when my royal husband returns home. I shall write to my sister. It will be soon, and then you will see what follows.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
HENRY HAD SEEN ships passing out in the open sea, but this was the first time he had been on one. He did not like it. A trip out of the bay had sounded good, but while the air was fresh and salt-sticky around them, the ship itself was horrendous: noise, noise everywhere, drummers banging away below, creaking wood and the slam of sail against caked sail, an unstable platform ready to tip him off his legs at any moment. The deck was crowded thick with pillars and crossbars, ropes and masts every way he looked; there was nowhere on board he could turn his eyes that wasn’t oppressive. If it would not have upset his wife, he would have stripped and leaped off the side, swam his way forward. Henry stared over the side in frustration. When he had first gone back, to fight the English deepsmen, he had been fearful, but he found himself longing to dive now. He had made a place for himself among those deepsmen: he was no longer a weak little boy who could be pushed up a beach. He had shown strength. The deepsmen did not hold grudges against new leaders, not if they were reasonable after the conquest. He had had too little time to play, but he’d been starting to make friends.
Out here, the sea was as featureless from above as from below, stretching out grey in all directions. Beneath the surface, he knew, there would be an endless mesh of sounds, the chatter and roar of the ocean to guide his way. But as long as his ears were above it, that world was closed to him. Instead, it was landsmen’s talk, as ceaseless as the seas, but no pattern of sounds to swim through, no echoes to guide your way. Landsmen’s talk was a net that tangled you, in commitments and lies and promises half-understood. You could move through the sea. When you were in it, it did not hurl you about like this ugly boat.
Seated on the deck of the great ship as it creaked and pitched its way out to sea, he thought of the ships he had seen in his childhood, the ships he had been forbidden to encounter, some of them could have been funeral ships. Deepsmen had no word for cannibal. But they did not, on the whole, eat each other. They would eat the tongue of a dolphin, should they best it in a fight, and sometimes, perhaps, if an intertribal struggle between two great men came to killing, there might be a symbolic bite from the bleeding stump, torn out of a ripped-away jaw. But nothing more.
With landsmen, it seemed, they had no such scruples. But perhaps they had had scruples for him. Or maybe they had just not wished him to be seen.
It mattered little enough. They were going out to sea, to drop off the body of an old man who had held the throne for a long time. The king had balanced people and armies, had held off enemies. Anne seemed to have been fond of him; she sat beside Henry, grey-faced and close-mouthed, her eyes glinting with tears she would not release.
On board the ship were Samuel Westlake and Archbishop Summerscales, muttering about their God over the bundled body. So many garments to wrap a dead man; so many words said to a hulk that could not hear.
Anne had said that they should chant a funeral dirge. It was respect, the landsmen thought, but she had told him the words. They had nothing to do with respect: they were a call to the deepsmen to come and take the body, once the sound of the drums had summoned them close enough to hear. It was sensible to get rid of the corpse, but to call it respect was simply lying again. There were musicians surrounding them, piping out dismal-sounding creaks and groans, crashing their wooden batons out of sight below, and Henry’s ears ached. He had promised they would call the deepsmen, but not until there was a point to it. And until they were far enough out to sea, there was no point.
They had ridden the ship down the Thames. On board were men who owned land in England, great men, as Anne put it. John Claybrook stood there, and on the other side of the ship, looking out at the water, was his father.
Also on board was Philip. Philip
was in a litter, kept far away from the body. At times he blinked bewildered eyes at the bundle, asking, “Father?” It was for this purpose that Henry had invited Allard, his scholar father, his first helper, to come and join them.
Allard had been shy of Henry when they met, standing before him in the great hall, his hands pressed together around a worn hat. He was smaller than Henry remembered; taller than Henry, yes, but an older man, thinner, than the master he had seemed all those years ago. It had been an effort to make conversation.
“Are you well?” Henry said.
“I am, I thank your Majesty,” Allard said. Henry had frowned. Allard had given him his name. Now he was frightened to use it.
“And your wife?”
“Well. Well enough. She will thank you for asking.”
She would do no such thing, Henry knew. She had always been terrified of him. Or perhaps just terrified to have him in the house, knowing what he could bring on them. She had thought him a wild animal, and a curse as well, a magnet to the anger of princes. She would be happier to have him away.
“And Markeley and his wife?” The man who had taught him all those weapons, weapons he had never come to use. He had been a part of his life, once. Henry doubted if he would ever see Markeley again.
“We—are all well, I thank your Majesty.”
Allard had lost. That was how he seemed. His foundling was at the throne, ready to ascend, married to the princess; the whole of England seemed ready to take in the boy he had found picking shells on a long-lost shore. It should have been a triumph for him. But there was an air of defeat about the man. Henry wondered how grieved he had been to see his boy run away.
“You are a man of learning,” Henry said. “I have a study for you. One that might interest you.”
Allard looked at him with a quick bewilderment. “Your Majesty?”
“Enough of ‘your Majesty,’ my name is Henry to you. It should be. You were the one who chose it for me.”
Allard blinked. “Yes … as you wish, Henry.”
In Great Waters Page 36