Raven Queen

by Pauline Francis

  You will only marry when you can have a child.

  Now Ellie brought me strips of linen to bind my body. “You cannot change the course of nature,” she said.

  I pleaded with her. “Do not tell anybody.”

  “Your mother asks me almost every day and I cannot lie.”

  “Not today,” I begged, “or I shall…I shall kill myself. Do you promise?”

  She nodded.

  I could not stop myself from weeping and I was surprised that my tears were not full of blood. Then I leaned my face against the windowpane and my tears melted the frost away.

  Now I would face my fate as Ned was facing his.

  They are like the black dog of my nightmare, the dogs that chase me. Two of them reach me and pull me to the ground, tugging at my clothes, snarling and slavering. But I push them off and I get up as soon as the grip of their teeth slackens. I run like a madman through the night until I realize that they are not following. The first night, I squat in a ditch, ready to run. It takes all my courage to stay.

  Every rustle, every shuffle makes me jump. I hear whisperings in the dark. I cannot catch their words and I know they are all in my imagination.

  Dawn brings soft sunshine and silence and I stretch my limbs, pleased with myself for still being alive.

  What shall I do? The necklace reminds me, its sharpness prodding my skin. Take it to her. She will make you very welcome. Why not? The Lady Mary is of my faith and she will give me news of Jane. Yes, I shall go to her.

  I stumble away from Bradgate Hall towards the Great North Road. Fear goes with me. Although I may no longer be recognizable as the boy who escaped from Lincoln prison, who stole a loaf of bread and an apple and nearly hanged, I know that if anyone finds the necklace, they will hang me from the nearest tree. I unpick some of the stitching of my waistband and thread the rubies through, and as I walk they dig into my back, reminding me constantly of why I am making this journey. Then I quicken my pace.

  I want to die many times during the silent and solitary days that follow. In the evening, when the trees darken with flocking birds, I allow myself to think about Jane. Only then. I have to ration the thought like my food, otherwise I cannot bear it.

  I cannot remember the days now, only the weeks – and I pass them on the highway. I am not fit for this journey and the coins in my pocket remind me that I could hire a horse. But my fear of being recognized is still too great.

  On the path to a village called Oakham, I catch up with a small boy as thin as a reed, his face smudged like a bruise. He does not leave me. He does not ask for food. He does not ask for water. He just wants to be with another human being. I soon get used to the pattering of his little bare feet. Sometimes I hand him a crust or a bad apple and he always takes it. Once the wind blows so hard that he falls over, he lets me carry him.

  He has been alone so long that he has forgotten his name.

  “I shall call you Tom after the great bell in Lincoln Cathedral,” I told him and he smiled for the first time.

  The next morning, Tom does not wake up. I wipe his face with icy water from the ditch and place him in the bulrushes, scattering him with violets.

  I miss him, and his footsteps haunt me every mile. And I fear the cold. I know that a fit man can walk twenty miles a day in good weather. But the icy winds have weakened me.

  The cold deepens every day, forcing me to light a fire. I flinch as the first flame flickers, and stand well back, piling on twigs with a long stick. The same stick secures a rat. Its roasting flesh sickens me to the stomach and forces the memories to tumble from me.

  It was a day like this when they came to our house last year. My father was sitting at the fireplace. Blazing oak logs scented the air and wood ash speckled his hair as he leaned towards the flames, spilling water from his goblet, making them hiss.

  There were three of them. As soon as they forced their way into the room, they went straight to him and ripped off the crucifix he always wore, so hard that I thought they had broken his neck. They hurled it into the fire and turned towards me, jeering, “A young Catholic in the making! Do you go to Mass with him?”

  I did not reply.

  “It is me you should talk to,” my father said. “Leave the boy alone.”

  One of the men – I remember he had red hair – sniggered. “Boys are always a soft touch,” he said.

  I flinched at the menace in his voice. I had heard plenty of tales about what soldiers did to soften up Catholic boys and girls. The clock ticked. To my relief, they went back to my father. “Who goes to Mass with you?”

  He just bowed his head. I thought they would arrest us there and then, but they seemed to lose interest. They glanced at each other, shrugged their shoulders and made for the door. I ran towards the fire, picked up the poker and started to push out the crucifix. The red-haired man happened to glance back. He whispered something to the others.

  They all came back, forcing me to kneel in front of the fire, tugging my right arm until I thought it would leave its socket. Then they thrust my hand into the flames.

  My father howled like an animal, but the pain was so great that I could not cry out.

  “Take your precious crucifix!” they shouted.

  I grasped the hot metal. I saw my hand blacken, smelled the stench of sizzling skin. The men laughed as they left. And I dropped the crucifix and slipped away into total darkness.

  My father continued to wear his crucifix, proud of its twisted metal, proud of my bravery. But I was not brave that day. I had no choice.

  Now panic fills me as I look at the fire I have lit. I glance down at my scarred palm and weep like the child I was that day.

  Spring is late and the trees start to green long after the end of Lent. The cold winds and rain make my bones ache and I long for the warmth of the bakehouse. A late frost nips the budding leaves around me and the daffodils bow their heads over the whitened grass.

  I stagger along. It rains every day, a soaking rain, and a fever quickly grips me. The highway rises up to meet me and as I put out my hands to protect my head, I topple onto the side of the road.

  I know that I am ill and I know that I am safe. Although the hands that help me are rough-skinned, they are also gentle and lavender-scented; except when I have to relieve myself and the woman with me shouts, “Walter, you’re needed up here!”

  One day, when the sun brightens at the window and strength seeps back into my limbs, the man helps me downstairs.

  “It’s summer,” the woman says in a cheerful voice. “You’ve been with us more than six weeks. Is anybody expecting you?” I shake my head.

  I judge the Palmers both to be nearing fifty. Walter Palmer is slight and anxious and it is his wife, Anne, who rules the roost. Her head is always full of plans and preparations. She consults the latest copy of The Book of Husbandry every day for helpful farming tips.

  They have had a farm all their lives, but find it more and more difficult to get help with the work. “Young men these days prefer to beg or steal instead of earning an honest living,” Walter grumbles good-naturedly.

  “We had two little ones of our own, dead many years,” Anne Palmer says, her voice wistful. “The lambs became our children.”

  “That daft young King has a lot to answer for,” Walter goes on. “Never known so many laws. I can’t keep up with them. Why don’t he just leave it to us to decide?”

  Anne pats her husband’s arm as if he is a naughty child. “What he means, Ned, is that only this March the government says there are too many sheep in England and not enough land for growing crops. So now we’ve got to get rid of some of them and plough up the land again. Who’s going to compensate us for all that work?”

  “Why don’t you stay the summer with us, Ned?” Walter asks. “We could pay you six pence a day and your bed and board – and plenty of noon meat.” He glances at Anne and her cheeks flush. “We ask only one thing and you must answer with the truth.” I stiffen and twist my fingers together. “We are of
the new faith, Ned. Are you?”

  How I want to nod my head and embrace them both as my new family! But I shake my head slowly.

  Mistress Palmer goes into the house and comes back carrying a small parcel of cloth which she hands to me. Inside nestle my rosary and crucifix. I look from one to the other, puzzled. “But if you already knew, why did you…?”

  “We wanted to make sure you were honest,” she replies. “Better an honest Catholic than a dishonest Protestant. Will you stay and work with us, Ned?”

  “No. I am sorry. I cannot. But God bless you for all that you have done for me.”

  It is time to leave, to go to the Lady Mary. Walter takes me to the Great North Road in his cart. With a sad wave he leaves me. Alone again, and with the sun on my right, I head south once more.

  The forest burst into life at last. Cow parsley hid the stream once more and catkins unfurled as long as a spaniel’s ear. Doctor Aylmer was sitting in the walled garden, watching Catherine and Mary as they threw pebbles into the fountain. I could see him from my window. I could see my reflection, too, and I was shocked at the pinched paleness of my face.

  I ran down to him. He would understand my anguish. But I saw tears on his cheeks and my heart thudded. “What is wrong?” I asked gently. “You are very pale.”

  “A scholar’s skin is always pale,” he replied. His shoulders sagged as he turned and held my hand for a moment. “I am unhappy because we shall not be together much longer.”

  My mouth dried with fear. I had to forget Ned in that moment. “Why? Are you unwell?”

  He shook his head, his eyes begging me not to ask any more.

  “Tell me what is happening, Doctor Aylmer,” I begged, gripping his hand so tightly that he winced. “I can bear it if I know. Knowledge is everything. You have taught me that.”

  “You will know, but not from me,” he replied. “I, too, have to obey your parents, My Lady.” He unfolded my fingers and held my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he walked towards the house.

  Mary ran towards me, laughing. She tugged at my dress, almost pulling me to the ground. “I’m going to be married,” she said. Her voice was high and excited.

  I laughed. “You are only eight years old. You are too young.”

  “No she’s not.” Catherine’s voice came from behind me. “We’re all to be married.”

  Everything stilled around me – the birds, the insects, the clouds. I no longer smelled the flowers. Why had nobody told me?

  “Marriage is as catching as the plague,” I said. I scowled at Catherine. “So whom shall I marry, Mistress Know-All?”

  Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Catherine shook her head. “I’m not telling,” she said. “But it starts with ‘g’ and ends with ‘d’.” She laughed. “And it’s not God.” She pulled Mary from me and ran back to the fountain.

  “Guildford!” I whispered to myself. I shuddered at the thought of his fleshy face. “But why should I marry Guildford Dudley and not the King?”

  I did something I had never done before. I went into my father’s private chamber without being summoned – and I entered without knocking at his door. I did not know what I was going to say. Anger had stopped me from thinking. My mother was with him.

  “I hear that I am to marry,” I gasped out the words. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” my father replied. “You are betrothed to Guildford Dudley.”

  I remembered my mother’s words: there are worse punishments than the whip.

  “I shall not marry him,” I shouted. “He is a Dudley and all the Dudleys are devils, and like the devil he is a roaring lion come to devour me. His father cannot want this marriage. He cannot stand the sight of me.”

  “It is a good match,” my mother said, coming closer.

  “For whom?” I shouted. “For you? For his father, a man who rules the King with a rod of iron? I shall never marry him! He—” She slapped my face. “I shall not. I fear the father rather than the son.”

  My father got up and took down his whip from the wall. “Ungrateful daughter!” Spittle frothed at his lips. “I am sick of the sight of your sullen face. You have royal blood running in your veins. It is your duty to marry.” He raised the whip. “King Edward has agreed to this marriage. Do you dare to disobey him as well as me?”

  My mother took the whip from his hands. For a moment her eyes seemed to soften and glisten. I almost forgave her then. But she whipped me as my father held me. She lashed only my back. “She cannot have bruises on her arms for her wedding day, Henry,” she explained.

  The whip cut through my flimsy dress and then I was more concerned that they should see my flesh than about the pain.

  Please God, let me die. I do not want to live like this.

  Ellie bathed my back with lavender water and the tears that fell from her eyes.

  The marriage ceremony was to take place in London at my father-in-law’s home – Durham House – which stood on the banks of the River Thames close to my parents’ house.

  I said goodbye to the forest with a heavy heart. The wind was strong in the trees, rattling the leaves. Clouds piled across the sun, dropping rain onto every leaf. My eyes searched everywhere for the darting black of the raven, but I did not see him.

  We set off on a sultry May day, a long procession of horses and litters. The side flaps were open and I looked back as we curved around the forest. “I might never see it again,” I muttered. I did not mean to say the words out loud. People do that on the scaffold before they are blindfolded. They say that you wear a blindfold so that the axeman cannot see his victim’s eyes, but I think it is to deprive the victim of his last glimpse of the world that suddenly becomes very dear when you are about to leave it.

  My mother glanced at Catherine, but neither of them spoke.

  A raven came into sight, hovering above us. Suddenly, a black shadow blocked out the light. It was a hawk, skimming the sunrise. It turned and swooped. The raven could have escaped, I was sure of it. But he did not try. He glided gracefully through the air until the hawk caught him with his claws. Even then he did not struggle. I watched until they became silent specks against the sun.

  The days are hot. I sleep in the shade by day and walk in the evening cool, and even during the night. Not many people are brave enough to travel by darkness, but it comforts me, like being back among the trees.

  On the third day, a cool wind begins to blow from the east and I walk during daylight. Granite outcrops give way to hills sprinkled with trees. Hertfordshire is softer than Leicestershire. I have never seen a greener county.

  Jane was right. I can see the towers of the house two miles from Hunsdon. It is an isolated palace for a princess, and difficult to believe that the Lady Mary, once the adored first child of the King of England, can live here.

  A woman opens the door long after I have knocked. She speaks before I do and her accent is Spanish, and I remember that Mary’s mother came from Spain. After her mother’s death, and when Henry was married to Anne Boleyn, Mary became a prisoner. Yet she was allowed to keep a few Spanish ladies-in-waiting. A kind gesture for a terrified young girl. The woman’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Be off, unless you want me to set the dogs on you!”

  “I must see the Lady Mary.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “I am of your faith,” I whisper. “Where is she? Please tell me!”

  She glances around her, nervous, and begins to close the door. “She set off for London yesterday because the King is ill. Then she changed her mind on the way and headed for Norfolk instead. Nobody knows why.”

  “Norfolk!”

  “Si, senor. To Kenninghall. It lies east of Thetford forest, about two days’ ride.”

  The need to see the Lady Mary has taken hold of me as quickly as the fever. I must have news of Jane. I am far enough from Leicestershire to risk hiring a horse. One shilling gives me a black mare which does my bidding all the way.

  I have imagined this ride many times, riding thr
ough the fens towards the east coast and taking a ship across the North Sea – with Jane riding beside me as I saw her that first day.

  Rain is already spitting from the Norfolk sky as I come close to Kenninghall – a pretty brick house with a moat and a drawbridge. Lightning gleams and the wind hurls down red hailstones, stinging my skin.

  I have never seen a storm like it.

  Two guards take hold of me immediately and push me through the Great Hall into a small parlour where a fire burns in spite of the stifling heat. A woman staring into the flames turns round at the sound of our footsteps. The guards bow.

  “We found him lurking outside, My Lady,” one of them says.

  I am in the presence of the Lady Mary at last. The woman my father worshipped as much as the Virgin Mary. The Saviour of England’s faith. Now she stands in front of me like a statue, stern-faced, dressed in blue, laden with jewels. Her ladies-in-waiting wipe her forehead with lavender water, rub her hands.

  “Who are you?” she asks. “Have you come to tell me that Dudley’s men are at the gates waiting to arrest me?”

  My heartbeat quickens. “No, My Lady. My name is Ned Kyme and I am of your faith.” I pull the necklace from my breeches and everybody in the room gasps. “This is the proof that I have come from the Lady Jane in friendship.” The heat from the fire is suffocating.

  She holds the rubies to her neck where they glisten like blood.

  “But how can my necklace prove that you are of my faith? You have been sent by the most Protestant person in England, apart from my sister Elizabeth. How do I know that you speak the truth, Ned?”

  Wind gusts down the chimney, spitting sparks from the fire. I stare at the flames, hypnotized, and hold out my hand to them. My fingertips feel their heat. I clench my teeth and force my hand further, feel the skin scorch.

  The Lady Mary gives a cry of anguish and pulls me back. “I believe you, pequenito,” she says, tears wetting her cheeks. “I am sorry, but I can trust nobody in this treacherous world, not even my own cousin now that she has allied herself with the Dudleys! The King stands no chance against them. They are like vultures waiting to devour him.”