“How do you know of that?” Anne said.
John shrugged. “I have ears,” he said. “And a tongue to speak with others that have ears.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “An intelligencer,” she said. “We must find more uses for you.”
There was something in her tone that made John look up, the happy expression suddenly gone from his face.
Anne hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Send your father to us,” she said. “We have something he must hear.”
John paused, his face going ashen. Henry looked over his shoulder, seeing his friend stand mute on the deck.
“It is all right,” he said. “We will be politicking.” There was a look of displeasure on his face; Anne heard a lot of concessions in his tone. For a long time Henry had insisted that they do something about Narbridge, the man who had turned in the Cornwall bastard for burning. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get him to abandon that idea. Though he had survived Claybrook’s attempt upon him, better than Erzebet had, he was not at all happy about Anne’s new idea on Claybrook. For a moment, Anne wondered whether he was going to say something more, change his mind, but he only looked back out at the sea. In and out of the gleaming water dived the deepsmen, and he called down to them: Swim well, brothers.
John disappeared, picking his way across the rising and falling deck, to find his father. Anne laid her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Does it sit so very ill with you?” she said softly.
Henry shrugged. The gesture was an irritable one, but not hostile. “It sits ill. But this is landsman politicking. It is not how I would solve the problem. But if we were to solve it as I would, you would say I was a tyrant. I do not mean to be a tyrant.”
“We can do good in the world,” Anne said.
Henry shrugged again. “You think you will please your God.”
She stroked his shoulder. “I do.”
“That will never matter to me,” Henry said.
Anne did not say anything, but she did not take away her hand.
John appeared with his father. The two of them stood side by side, but there was a distance between them; Anne could see the bright white sky, a slice of light keeping them apart.
“Please, your Majesty,” said John, “do not send me away.”
“We did not intend it,” said Anne.
Henry turned at last. But even as he looked at Claybrook, his eyes wandered over the man’s shoulder, out to the heaving sea.
“Claybrook,” he said, “you are a murderer and a liar, and we will not have you on our shores.”
Claybrook’s face was white, but he tried for a careful smile. “Your Majesty—” he said.
“Do not talk.” Henry’s voice was level, and cut like a flint-edge. “You are a liar, and I am not interested in what you say. We know the truth of you.”
Beside his father, John clasped his hands together, his knuckles paling as he gripped.
“I do not understand my wife,” Henry said. “But she thinks her God wants her to be merciful. If it had been my mother you had killed, I would not have spared you.”
Henry thought only for a moment as he said that sentence. Would he have spared a man who killed his mother? She had pushed him out of his home into this dry, word-twisted world, where people schemed and murdered behind closed doors, and cared about nonsense, and fettered him hand and mind. His mother had not been with the tribe of France; it had been a long time ago she drove him out. Very probably she was dead by now. He would never see her again, could never ask, even if he could have put it into deepsman’s words. But he understood, nonetheless. She had pushed him away because he was a burden who would slow the tribe down. She had tried to keep him alive, and it had been growing impossible for her. In the sea, you did not bow to idiots, did not fetter yourself with words. That look he had seen on his wife’s face when her uncle was present was not something he had ever seen in the sea. There was fear, yes, but there were no insane obligations. You did not deny your endless, passionate desire to live. You fought for life, and you lived the best you could, and you sloughed off burdens that would drown you. He was not a burden now. His mother had not abandoned him to a shark, after all, had not held him under. Maybe, when she chased him up that beach, she was hoping he could be cared for. He did not like the landsmen’s care, did not want it. But really, why else was he angry with her, except that she had made him leave her?
“Your Majesty, I—”
“Be quiet,” Henry said. “I do not love this God of my wife’s, and if you try my patience, I will push you over the side. I have a job for you, Claybrook. You may take it, or you may face a trial.”
“For murder?” That was John. He did not leave his father’s side, but neither did he lean away as the ship rocked.
“For spying,” Anne said. Her voice was not sharp, but it was firm. “My sister and I are allies now. She has given me the names of her intelligencers. It was from you, my lord Thames, that she heard of our marriage. And while you did not cause a war by the news, we have our own efforts to thank for that, not yours. The penalties for treason are severe, and we have seen too many burnings in this country already.”
“We have a job,” Henry said “We are not going to burn bastards. We still mean to stop sailors from fucking deepsmen women, but if a bastard is found, he will be under our protection. We will find means for him. If the deepsmen will not care for him while he is small, we shall. They shall be cousins of the king. All bastards. We will have an army. And you will spy for them.”
“My—your Majesty, I—” Claybrook’s face was still, but his hands were shaking; there were small twitches at the corners of his eyes and mouth, like a smooth pond with deep currents just rippling the surface.
Henry made an impatient gesture. “I do not expect you to go in the water. And I certainly do not expect you to fuck a deepsman girl and try to put yourself in power that way, Claybrook; the deepsmen will kill you if you try. You will stay out of the water. But you will remain on your ship, you will sail, and watch the water, and if you see a child with cloven legs, you will send word. The deepsmen will know your ship. If they wish to hand the child over, they will bring him up to you. Do not think you can hide him; the captain of the ship is a friend of ours.” The young man was, in fact, Thomas Hakebourne’s second son Robert: Hakebourne had approved the plan thoroughly and volunteered his boy. He was glad, he said, to see a good purpose for younger sons. He meant Robert, Henry supposed, but perhaps he meant deepsmen children as well.
“You will bring children to shore, and the captain will arrange passage for them. Your land contains the Thames; a ship will meet you where the Thames meets the sea, and the children will go up it. Your land joins my father Allard’s, after all. He is to oversee the bastard children. Along with you, John,” Henry said, turning to his friend. “You have stewardship of your father’s estate while he is at sea. We take it all from him, now, for good. And Claybrook,” turning back to the older man, who stood grey and frozen on the deck, “you will be at sea all your life.”
A halloo rose from below the keel: the deepsmen had spotted prey. Henry turned, his expression animated for the first time that day. “Will you come?” he said to Anne.
Anne hesitated. “In a while,” she said. Henry’s face fell a little, and she laid her hand on his arm. “I will come,” she said. “But you are the real hunter. John, oversee the small boats so the court can join the hunt. You are a man of fortune now. My lord Thames.”
John looked for a long moment at his father. Then he bowed. “Yes, your Majesty,” he said. “Thank you, your Majesty.”
Was God pleased with her day’s work? Anne wondered. Would Erzebet have been? She thought of her mother’s fierce, still face, the terrible patience of a frightened woman. Even after Samuel’s revelation, she could not, in her heart, let go of that longing for her mother: Erzebet’s resolve, her courage, the bruised body she laid down in service to her country. God commanded forgiveness, but whether it was her right to forgive
Erzebet for sins she had committed against others, Anne did not know. She could not, for all that, press the love out of her memory. Erzebet might have thought her weak, or taking too much of a chance, leaving Claybrook alive. But Erzebet’s thoroughness had driven Claybrook himself to a bath of scalding water. That murder Anne could not, in her heart, forgive. But she could hold her hand. Fear led only to fear, and the frightened lashed out. Anne could only trust her heart to God, and pray that her mercy would not cause suffering later.
But then, she would be Queen, and could keep her eyes open all the time. Be merciful, and watch. That was the best she could plan for. It was time for a surcease of fear.
Samuel Westlake was not going into the boats; he had enough strength, apart from his leg, to handle a harpoon as well as any, but he was not by nature a huntsman. She went and sat beside him. He glanced up from his viewing of the departing boats as she did, and waited for her to speak.
“You heard what we promised Claybrook, I suppose,” she said. He had sat a respectful distance away, but his ears were sharp for a landsman’s. Very little escaped him.
Samuel nodded, slowly. “I heard, your Majesty.”
“Do you forgive me, Samuel?” she said.
“For what, your Majesty?”
Anne shook her head, trying to resolve her thoughts. “For my ignorance of my mother, I suppose. Because I cannot stop feeling a daughter’s love for her. For marrying a pagan and still believing I love God. Is that pride, Samuel?”
Samuel drew a long breath in. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it is better to love God, even in pride or sin, than not to love God at all.”
“A prince must act,” Anne said. “We cannot always choose the best course. But I mean to try, Samuel. I will try to be merciful. If that leads to danger, I will face it. But I will not be the first to create danger in my kingdom. I will try to rule well.”
Samuel sighed. “It is not my place to forgive you for ignorance,” he said. “I believe you, now, that you tried to act for the best. But your husband, your Majesty. I—cannot sit with a pagan ruling the Church.”
“Henry does not want the Church,” Anne said. “I do not think he even wants the land.”
“Your Majesty?”
Anne shook her head. “We shall see,” she said. “All I can ask you is this: if I try to rule as God wills it, will you help me, Samuel?”
Samuel reached out and took her hand. “I am your man, your Majesty,” he said. “I cannot act against my conscience, I cannot act against God. But I only desire your good, and England’s. As far as God wills it.”
Anne let her hand lie in his. “I cannot ask for more,” she said. “I would not wish to.”
Over the side of the boat, there were great plumes of spray rising. Porpoises were breaking the surface, great gleaming bodies rising out of the water, slick as metal in the light, diving in and out of the landsmen’s harpoons as the deepsmen drove them up from below. It seemed a shame, Anne thought, to destroy such graceful creatures. Henry said that they and the deepsmen were enemies, that they would eat deepsmen children if they could catch them, but they were lovely nonetheless.
She had better join in the hunt. Stripping off privately, Anne dived over the side. The water closed around her, sharp and cold, deafening in its commotion as deepsmen called hunting cries from all sides, porpoises screeched, harpoons and bodies crashed through the surface with the sound of shattering glass. Anne could hear the calls: Follow me! Go round eastwards! I am below! Forward! And in amongst them, Henry’s voice, calling as loud as any: Drive them up, drive them up!
Anne hung in the chaos of bubbles and white water, churned air fizzing upon her skin. Her husband dived and called with his people, ringing clear and strong amongst them.
She knew, in that moment, what she had known for some time in her heart. Henry, Whistle, her husband, was a deepsman. He had found his people, and he was not coming back.
Anne let out a great sigh of air, watching the bubbles rise to the surface above her. They shimmered in the water like scales, like silver, driving hard and beautiful towards the light.
THIRTY-NINE
WHISTLE COULD REMEMBER the arms of his mother, holding him up for his first lungful of air. The arms of his wife, around him in the cold, were soft, gentle, the kind arms of a woman who had never pushed him out. As the sea lapped around them, he clutched her to him, the pliable body of this strange girl who had, in the end, not forced him to act against himself. She had saved his life, and as for what she called his soul, she had left it alone.
Whistle was happy for that. He would miss her when he was away. But he knew, now, how to come back.
The coronation was behind them, a dull ceremony that Whistle had sat through, knowing that this time, this final time, really was the last time he would have to sit in some grim cave of a building, bored by words he knew nothing about and cared for even less. John had been beside him. As the instruments had creaked out their weird music, Whistle had turned and whispered to him what they really meant, Good eating, don’t trifle with me, and John had laughed behind his hand. But John was a client king now, a nominated regent, and had cleared his face quickly. John could understand the politicking, and he seemed to get on well with Anne. Whistle would just have to trust in their fidelity to him. But then, there would be deepsmen girls in the sea, the long months when he was away from his wife, and he was prepared to stay away from them; he had no desire for quarter-blood children. It was not a family arrangement, this deal between the three of them, but it would hold if they held to it. Whistle was determined to find that people could be trusted.
King in the water—that was what they were calling him now. Visiting his wife when the tides were right, speaking to passing ships, hailing sailors and courtiers who went out to fish, swimming out with his family. Perhaps he would not be king over the deepsmen, not in body: he was still small, always would be, for the sea. The deepsmen had no word for negotiator; they were, however, developing a verb: whistle-talking. Who would have thought it, Whistle reflected, finally amused. He had ended up a diplomat after all.
Anne embraced him a last time, and swam back to her people. For an instant, hanging empty-armed in the water, Whistle was lonely. He felt a catch of sorrow in his throat as the girl disappeared into the gloom. But she would be back.
Whistle drew a deep lungful of air and drove down, out to the sea where his own people were waiting for him. As the water stroked over his body, he felt it all shed away: words, books, straight-angled rooms and crosses of wood, of stone, of glass, the textures and weights and tastes of the land. He was coming clean, returning to the life he had lost.
It would not be safe in the sea. Nothing was safe. But if the sea was a life of movement and hunger, starvation and flight, so was life on the land, in its way. Whistle had lived skin-to-skin with danger all his life. It was nothing new. Nothing, in itself, he was afraid of. He would save his fear for real things, for sharks and poison fish and rocks in storms. He was going home.
He could hear the calls of his people, out in the dark water: Come on. Welcome. We are waiting. Whistle broke the surface one last time in an English bay, took a great breath of cold, sweet air, and dived.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m blessed to know and work with a lot of wonderful people, all of whom deserve thanks.
First, thanks to my wonderful agent Sophie Hicks and everyone at Ed Victor: I couldn’t be more fortunate than to work with you. Without Philippa Harrison, I doubt the book would have been finished at all, and certainly it would have been much worse, so endless gratitude for riding in on a white horse at a critical juncture.
Everyone at Random House has been great, especially Dan Franklin, Betsy Mitchell, and Ellah Allfrey, whose superb suggestions went a long way towards improving the first draft. I’d also like to thank the sturdy proofreaders, Ellen Weider, and Maralee Youngs my fine designers and typesetters, whose skill and patience I can only admire.
The commenters on my blog
have been a delight to me ever since I started it, and I much appreciate their thoughts and company. I’d particularly like to thank all those clever souls who gave generously of their time and effort to answer my call for nit-picks with an alarmingly well-informed array of suggestions and queries, which made the final polish much more useful than it otherwise would have been: Naomi Clark, James Donalbain Bremner, Jane Draycott, Jill Heather Flegg, Ursula L, Jos, Cowboy Diva, Robb, Joolya, Christopher Subich, hapax, Linda Coleman, Practicallyevil, Wesley Parish, Margaret Yang, Sunlizzard, Lauren, Ecks, Michael Mock, Sheila O’Shea, Alfgifu, and everyone who falls into the category of “Anonymous.”
At an important point, Tim and Joanna Harison recommended an essential book, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, which made a huge difference in getting over a pretty big crisis of confidence, so sincere thanks to them. Though I haven’t met her in person, I’d like to thank Julia Cameron as well: it was good advice, I took it, and I’d recommend it.
My excellent friends have been great, so thanks to everyone: you’re all fine people and a pleasure to know. I’d particularly like to thank Claire Bott, consultant on many things and stalwart ally; Peggy Vance, early reader and wellspring of confidence; and everyone else who encouraged me.
To my dear husband Gareth Thomas, for his suggestions, support, courage and faith, all my love.
And finally, I want to thank my family. When I wrote my first proper short story at eighteen, I showed it to my mother, knowing I could count on her for unqualified support. After that, I showed it to my father with some trepidation, knowing I could count on him to be frank. He read it, thought for a second, and said, “You could be a proper writer.” For these things, and for so many others: love and thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KIT WHITFIELD grew up in London. In her time, she has trained as a chef and a masseuse, as well as worked as a website editor, quote hunter, toy shop assistant and publisher. She is the author of two novels: Benighted and In Great Waters.
In Great Waters Page 39