In Great Waters

by Kit Whitfield

  Anne stood on the rocking deck, speechless.

  “If you say it was my lord Claybrook who murdered your mother, that is a sin upon his soul,” Samuel said. “But he saved my life by doing it, my lady Princess. Your mother died before she could make another attempt. If he was hiding a bastard, I can well believe that he would be frightened. Your mother was a fearsome woman.”

  Anne had never in her life minded the cold, had loved it as a memory of the sea on her skin, but now she was shivering. She grasped frantically at the remains of her thoughts, trying to see some way clear. “My mother was a Christian,” she said. “Why should you fear a pagan king more than her?”

  Samuel’s eyes were pinched at the corners, as if holding back tears. “You were willing to overturn the Church to place him on the throne, to secure it,” he said. “Against the laws of God. It was not him I feared, my lady Princess. It was you.”

  “Samuel, I love the Church. I would not have let any pagan king overset it.”

  “As long as a pagan king is on the land, we cannot have unity,” Samuel said. “If the king himself does not honour God, what will become of us all? Frenchness breeds out in a generation, but heresy grows, my lady Princess. I did not want to see the Church fractured in a deepsman’s hands.”

  “You—you are wrong,” Anne said. She could think of no answer, but everything in her cried this out. “I would have preserved the Church. I will. God does not want us to make war. I have only ever acted to save lives, Samuel. Will you say that lives are of no account?”

  Samuel leaned against the mast, hands behind his back. “Your mother would have said the same thing,” he said. “I knew her. I do not say lives are of no account. But I do not think you have reckoned the price well.”

  I should go in the water, Henry’s voice came across the deck. It is time. Stop talking about dead landsmen and come and help me.

  Dead landsmen. That was how Henry spoke of Christ. Anne unclasped her hands from their wooden support, began the unsteady journey back to the prow. It seemed a long time before she reached the others. Samuel stood in the stern, watching her go. He made no attempt to follow her.

  And Mary was in the water.

  Anne and Henry stripped and prepared to dive off the end of the boat. This was not how a funeral was supposed to be conducted, but no one was going to argue with them. Henry’s eyes lingered on Anne as she bared her skin to the air, but Anne could not feel any response. Samuel’s news had struck her like a wave, and she was soaked in it. She could think only of her mother.

  I have always wanted this, Anne told herself as she dived. I have never been out past the bay. Now, for the first time, I am seeing the real ocean.

  But the sea was dark and obscure, a blank vista in every direction. Clouded light and shadows below, no different from a bay. Sounds carried, the shore of England quieter and France louder, the calls of deepsmen in the water and the bat-clicks of fish, but Anne looked at her own grey legs, light wavering over them from above, and saw nothing but her own flesh. No answers in the water.

  Mother, she thought. Erzebet’s face, tense and proud, raising her chin as the bruises on her body were laid open to all eyes. Erzebet sleeking forward through the water, hurling herself towards the deepsmen she had to appease, with only her own strength and endurance to do so. Erzebet cradling a child, Anne, her own daughter, sending maids out of the room and crooning, Safe, my baby, safe. Erzebet kissing Anne for asking whether or not princes should spare their enemies, and making no answer to the question.

  Anne had waited all her life for her mother’s love. She had had it all along, she thought now. But she had waited more for her mother’s heart, to know what thoughts Erzebet was keeping behind that still face. As the deepsmen started to gather, as calls began to echo from the south in response to Henry’s calls, Anne thought she knew.

  It was fear.

  It was so easy to say it: This has to be done for the greater good. This has to be done to protect those I love. To spend your life watching the faces around you, trying to anticipate, trying to protect, to conceal yourself and find out others, to compromise and bargain away pieces of yourself, waiting for the moment when the promise to the baby in your arms would one day be true. Erzebet had seen her uncle’s skull crack under a blazing crown. Anne had seen her uncle thrash and bellow, helpless as a stunned bull, had seen her mother scream and bleed, had seen her sister, her only sister, sent away to a stranger. Always, always saying to herself: One day I shall be secure. One day, we shall be safe.

  In the stillness of a chapel, Anne could feel God in her heart. But she never felt further from the light of Heaven than when she said to herself the same sentence she had been saying, heart-deep, since she could first remember: One day, not today, but one day, I shall be safe.

  Anne had not been willing to see a man burned. But she had not been ruling very long. And there was a long time yet before she could reach that point. She was still only fourteen.

  She had waited to be loved all her life. And in waiting, what would she become?

  Somewhere, Mary was waiting. It had been months since she had seen her sister’s face, but she would not see it here in the water. Diving down, Anne remembered the first years of her life: Erzebet’s here-and-gone attention and Mary elsewhere, unmentioned by anyone. Why had Erzebet not told her that she had a sister?

  The thought of being angry with her mother was terrifying, something she could not face; Anne fought down the thought as hard as she could: My mother should have told me I had a sister. It was not the thought for this moment, could do no good at all. But Anne remembered sitting at Erzebet’s funeral, how Mary had reached for her hand while Anne sat rigid with her eyes straight ahead.

  There was no turning back. It was the best chance England stood, to hazard a clean-blooded king, it was right for the country. But Anne swam through the dark water, thinking of how she had waited and waited for her mother’s notice, had strained her eyes past Mary to find it, when all the time, Mary had been waiting for hers.

  Henry’s calls were being answered. The voices of the English deepsmen were drawing nearer. In the darkness of her own mind, Anne said to herself what she had said so many times before: I must attend to business now, I have not time to think of this. But would she ever have time?

  Whistle, she said, surface with me. She could hardly see Henry in the black depths, but she heard, after a pause, the reply.

  All right. Surface.

  And the two of them pushed their heads above water.

  “What do you want?” Henry said. “We have not much time.”

  Anne reached out, wrapped her hand around his shoulder. “Do not hurt my sister,” she said. “Promise me.”

  Henry shook his head. He did not like having his ears out of the water like this; unable to listen properly, any predator might be closing in on him, and all his instincts jangled. “Why do you trouble me with this now?”

  “Promise me.” Anne’s fingers clutched him, and her nails pressed against his skin. He reached up and took her wrist. It was small in his hand, narrow and delicate. She was floating up and down as the wind blew, and Henry reached out, laid his hand on her waist. In the privacy of darkness, intimacies were easy.

  “If she fights me, I must defend myself,” he said. He was trying not to sound angry. His wife seemed to be upset about something again. Henry felt some compunction about that; he did not like to see her unhappy—but she was unhappy a lot, quickly upset. It was no way to survive an active life, getting so distressed so easily.

  “She will not, you—she is smaller than you, much smaller. Promise you will not hurt her.”

  Henry sighed. This was no time to wrangle, and if she wanted it, she could have his promise. He had committed himself to be loyal to her. “If you wish. Now we must get on.”

  His hand squeezed her waist, briefly, and then he was under the surface with a flick.

  Anne hesitated. At the level of her eyes, the waves stretched out: great ripples,
miles across, little swells that would rise and crash down on the beaches. She could see for miles, here in the daylight.

  Then she plunged her head back into the darkness.

  Sister, she called. Come to me. Sister. Where are you?

  Mary’s voice answered. I am here.

  Is your man here? It was the answer she most needed to know. She did not want to hurt anyone, but the issue was Louis-Philippe. This man she had never met. She needed to know where he was.

  A voice came ringing out of the depths. You could not say that it had a French accent; it spoke in their common mother tongue with the same ease that Anne and Mary had. But there was a cadence to it that was unfamiliar: not the English staccato chant, not Henry’s hinterland bark; something was different about it. It was a strong voice, though. Fine lungs and a sound body behind it. I am here, it said.

  The phrase, I am here, was spoken with a challenge. There were different inflections for certain statements, narrow and precise variations. Louis-Philippe was speaking with the lilt of a leader.

  Anne could not, for a moment, answer. Are you all right, sister? she said.

  There was a lull, and Mary’s voice came back. The sound was thin. She sounded as if she was struggling for words to adequately express the foolishness of Anne’s question. I am more all right than you are.

  Sister, Anne said. I do not wish to fight.

  There was another hush. Anne could not see her sister’s face in the void, and Mary would not swim close enough to see her.

  Your man is bad, Mary said. You have made a mistake.

  Not bad, Anne said. Not a stranger.

  You have not backed me up, Mary said. Her voice was rising shrill and pained, echoing across the miles. The deepsmen had no word for betray.

  Louis-Philippe’s voice cut in again, calling out a challenge. He called it to Henry, and Henry answered. Around them, a swirl of deepsmen rose, a spiralling army, circling the four of them in silent, grey-skinned ranks.

  Deepsmen saw things tribally, Henry knew. But the deepsmen of France were his own tribe. So too, now, were the deepsmen of England. They recognised a victory by strength. You saw it sometimes: new faces joined, old faces left. There were no borders in the sea, no imaginary lines down solid earth. You could move with the tide.

  It was not, therefore, a matter of landsmen’s law that the deepsmen from the shores of France and England must be, now and for ever, rivals. It was a matter of habit, of custom.

  And, given the right push, customs could change.

  This was what the landsmen forgot: that while they thought so much of the deepsmen, of their salt-blooded kings and their guardians on the shores, most of the time the deepsmen were thinking of other things. They had no farms and crops to bring them food after they had schemed all day; it was hunt or die, all the time, continually. They paid loyalty to their visiting lords because they needed alliances and truces; they took an interest in their own territory because it was good to keep a place that was safe from your enemies.

  But let them agree that another tribe was not the enemy, and a peace treaty could be sealed in the time it would take a landsmen to cut a pen.

  His deepsmen had known Louis-Philippe since Louis-Philippe was a child, that much was clear. But he had not roamed with them. Henry’s ties of blood, Whistle’s ties, simply went deeper. Louis-Philippe was a good enough ally, but Whistle was one of their own.

  So as Louis-Philippe called out a challenge, deepsmen rose. And Louis-Philippe bounced his voice in Whistle’s direction, saying, Enemy.

  Anne and Whistle had not called the deepsmen from England; there had been no need. They had known, because Whistle had told them, what to anticipate. They had followed the boat silently from beneath.

  And as the deepsmen of France rose at Louis-Philippe’s voice, they did not mass upon Whistle. They swam forward, past Louis-Philippe, going out to greet their new friends. Deepsmen whirled round each other, diving and dancing, following each other in twisting, joyous patterns; holding hands, embracing, play-chasing each other through the water. There were no calls of Enemy, Fight, Challenge. Instead, the water was filled with greetings. Happy to see you again. We shall not fight. Would you like to be my friend?

  Great beams of light sliced through the choppy waves, glinting and flashing on grey skin as the deepsmen swam in and out, somersaulting and clasping hands. Deepsmen were fierce, but given a chance not to fight, to spare injuries and lives, given a chance to have peace instead of wasting blood, they were glad to take it. Deepsmen were fierce, but they weren’t foolish.

  Anne hovered in the water, watching the soldiers of the deep gambol around one another. She reached out, for a moment, and took Whistle’s hand. He clasped it, feeling the narrow bones, the fine webs. She was emotional, his wife, but she could be pleased after all.

  Sister, he heard her say, we will not fight. The tribes will not fight, and I do not want to fight you.

  The sister was too far away for them to see her face clearly, but he heard a rising note in her voice. What have you done? Have you taken away my tribe?

  I love you, Anne said. I do not want to fight. I have made peace. Make peace with me.

  I am a stranger, came the girl’s voice out of the dark. I left my tribe. I wanted to come home. You have harmed me.

  Anne did not let go of his hand. I know, she said. You need not be a stranger. Be my sister and I will be yours. I am sorry.

  The girl’s voice came again, loud and high. You have harmed me!

  I have harmed you, said Anne. I have not been your friend. I want to be your friend now. I am sorry.

  What his wife was apologising for, Whistle didn’t know; it had better not be for marrying him. He had counted on her to be happy about that. But her hand still gripped his in the silence.

  Whistle spoke again, this time to Louis-Philippe. The man had no deepsman’s name, nothing that could be pronounced underwater, and to even attempt his land name would be to swallow a lungful of brine, but he directed himself as well as he could in Louis-Philippe’s direction. Sister’s man, he said. Do you want to be king?

  What? The reply came sharp and clear. The man had a fine voice, Whistle thought. He could deal with such a voice.

  Let us be friends, Whistle said. Make peace with us. Make peace, and my tribe will be better friends with you than with your brother. You will be king.

  Do not fight. That was Anne’s voice, cutting across him. Do not fight your brother, or we will not support you. But make peace with him and with us.

  That was a refinement Whistle had not thought about, and, considering how hysterical landsmen were about titles, would take a lot of talking in France to resolve: Louis-Philippe trying to take the kingship from his brother without fighting him for it. But then again, Louis-Philippe had lived on land all his life. Perhaps he could find a way. Whistle was not eager for more battles or enmities anyway; they only led to burnings, and hiding yourself away.

  Let us be friends, brother, Whistle said to Louis-Philippe in the dark. I am offering you something good. Take it.

  There was a long silence, filled only with the chirrups of fish. Then Louis-Philippe’s voice came back. I will take it, he said. And Anne’s hand relaxed in Whistle’s grip, and she lay down upon the sea, stretching out her limbs in victory.

  Surface, she said, swimming up to the top. Whistle did not need to breathe yet, so he let her go. There was a pause, the dark shape of her legs bobbing in the bright waves above. Then there was a crash: a shape falling through the water, long and wrapped. The tribe, both tribes, swam up to grab it.

  Edward’s body, Henry thought. The old king, now a victory feast, sealing a new treaty. His people could have it. They were dragging it down now, unravelling the bindings with their sharp nails; scraps of cloth floated all around them, like leaves in a gust, drifting slowly down.

  The four of them. Whistle, Anne, Mary and Louis-Philippe, all stayed where they were. This was not a feast for any of them. They swam together, sl
ower than the deepsmen had, but together nonetheless, reaching out in the murk to see the faces of their new allies.

  BOOK EIGHT

  DEPARTURE

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  IT WAS A fine day when the court set out to hunt. Anne was glad of that; though nothing made her seasick, some of her courtiers’ stomachs were not so steady, and finding porpoise to hunt would be a long journey out into the rough seas. She stood by the prow, watching as her deepsmen skimmed ahead, diving in and out of the wake like birds.

  John came up and stood beside them. Henry was hunched over the side, chirruping down to the deepsmen. Crabs are good to eat, he was saying. I will teach you how to open one. There was a look on his face Anne had seen a lot lately. She had thought, at first, that it was anger, but she was coming to know him better. Now she thought she recognised it: yearning.

  “I have not seen a hunt like this since I was small,” John said.

  “I know. You told me of it once, do you remember?” Anne said. Henry inclined his head a little, but did not join the conversation.

  “I am glad to see the tradition revived.” John smiled. The wind blowing the hair around his face made him look young and clean. “Do you mean to be blooded, your Majesty?”

  Anne shook her head. “I hardly need to be baptised to the sea. And I do not wish to be baptised in blood.”

  “Baptised?” Henry said, turning his head a little.

  “Received into the Holy Spirit,” Anne said. “Holy water is poured, and you are cleansed of sin.”

  Henry shook his head and stared back down at the wake. “Holy water,” he muttered, as if to himself.

  “Are you resolved on the coronation tomorrow?” John said, ignoring Henry’s mumbling with the air of one used to rising above what couldn’t be helped. “That is, have you resolved the question of Henry protecting the Church? I do not believe the Archbishop is happy about it.”