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Authors: H. M. Castor

VIII (2 page)

BOOK: VIII
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“For the love of God, have someone dress
the boy, Elizabeth. He looks like a peasant.”

I don’t like to be called a peasant, even by my own grandmother. And anyway it’s not true. What peasant wears a sable-lined blanket with embroidered velvet slippers? (Even if the slippers
are
much too large – a groom just found them for me.) I scowl down at my fist. I’m trying to pick a bit of dried food out of my garnet ring.

“Don’t fidget,” my mother whispers, rubbing my hair.

We’re deep in the heart of the Tower. We’ve come through so many gates, it feels like the centre of a maze. I’m surprised: I thought it might feel like a prison, but the hall we’re standing in isn’t grim and bare – it’s very like the hall at Eltham Palace, which is the place I call home. A fire is blazing in the huge hearth and friendly faded ladies and knights ripple at me gently from the painted hangings on the walls. I have pushed all thoughts of eerie faces from my mind. I would
like something to drink. The only thing making me feel uncomfortable is the fact that my grandmother is here. She must have set off from The Coldharbour too: how she got here first, though, I have no idea.

Servants are rushing about, carrying candles, piles of linen, trestle tables and benches. My grandmother stands in the middle of all this commotion, her yellowish face edged by a white wimple, her bony hands resting on her plain black gown. She dresses like a nun, but you do not forget for a moment she is the mother of the king. She has a manner you could graze yourself on.

I know that I must not show my grandmother how much she scares me. She’s like my father: she will kick a dog if it whimpers; if you show fear, she’ll look at you as if you’re a piece of maggoty meat. Tudors aren’t afraid. It’s my mother’s family that are weak and tearful and full of foolish feeling. I’ve heard my grandmother say that my mother’s parents married for love. She says it like she’s picking up a dirty, stinking rag. I think it means: no wonder your mother is so soft, no wonder she hugs you and kisses you and treats you like a baby.

My mother gathers me in now against her skirts. She says, “Have you heard any news, ma’am? Are the rebels at the City gates? At the bridge? Are they south of the river or north?”

“They are not at the gates,” says my grandmother. “The report that they were so close to London has turned out to be a false alarm. We have been informed that they are still thirty miles away.” A passing pageboy is holding down the top of a huge pile of napkins with his chin. In one smooth movement she stops him, whisks the top cloth off the pile, yanks his arms out in front of him and cuffs him across the head.

I wince, as if she’s hit me too.

As the boy rushes past, his eyes brimming, she adds,
“Lord Daubeney is encamped with a force on Hounslow Heath to hold the rebels back from the City.”

“How many men in Daubeney’s force?”

“Eight thousand.”

I feel my mother’s hand tighten on my shoulder. She says, “The last estimate I heard, the rebels had nearly twice that number.”

“Our scouts have been reporting desertions. And, in any case, the King will bring his force to join Daubeney.” My grandmother says this as if my father only has to turn up to be sure of winning any battle. Is it true? I could well believe it. My father is a fearless warrior.

“The Earls of Oxford and Suffolk have mustered good numbers too,” my grandmother says. “Daubeney simply needs to hold out until they arrive.”

“And… there’s been no report of—” My mother hesitates. “No report from the Kent coast?”

“Of a landing?” My grandmother smiles thinly. “Nothing yet. But if the rebels have a plan to take London by storming the bridge,
that person
will most likely sail up the Thames and assault the City from the water, don’t you think?”

I know who my grandmother means when she says ‘
that person
’. It’s a man who wants to push my father off the throne and be king instead. Sometimes people call him ‘the Pretender’. He’s been talked about for as long as I can remember: how he moves from country to country, from court to court of the kings who are my father’s enemies, getting money from them and trying to build an army so he can invade England. I imagine him like an ogre, striding across kingdoms with a few giant steps –
stump, stump, stump
. He’s had coins minted threatening my father, with a quote from the Bible stamped on them: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”

Now, after years of waiting, they say this man – the Pretender – is coming for real. The rebel army closing in on London isn’t his – it’s a band of Cornishmen, rebelling against taxes. But this is the Pretender’s chance: while the country’s in chaos he’s going to invade. I glance fearfully at the hall’s great oak door, as if he might knock it down right now and come crashing in to kill us all.

My mother mutters, “God preserve the King.”

“Oh, He will,” says my grandmother. “I have faith in that.” She hands the crumpled napkin to a passing maid. “Arthur is not being moved?”

“He has a garrison protecting him at Ludlow. It’s best he stays where he is.”

My grandmother grunts, which I think means she agrees.

“And the girls will be safe enough at Eltham,” adds my mother.

My grandmother doesn’t even bother to reply.

Arthur is my older brother and, being the heir to the throne, has his own household at Ludlow. He is also my grandmother’s favourite. I don’t think, in fact, that she knows what younger brothers like me are for, let alone sisters – of any age. She had only one son herself: my father. She gave birth to him when she was thirteen years old, and people say that he ripped her insides so badly she could never have another child.

“Mass will be said in the White Tower at eight,” my grandmother is saying. “Your chambers should be ready soon.” She is about to leave, heading for the door behind us at the far end of the hall. But, as she comes close to pass by us, she stops. “By the way, Elizabeth, it occurs to me that I haven’t asked you…”

“What?”

“Who you are hoping will win, my dear.”

I feel my mother stiffen. She whispers, “Not in front of my son, ma’am. Please.”

There’s a tiny moment of silence. Then my grandmother sweeps past, flicking a bony finger painfully hard against the side of my head as she does so, and saying, “Stand on your own, boy.” I jerk to attention, leaving go of my mother’s skirts.

When she’s gone, I let out a breath. My mother does too; we catch one another doing it and grin. Then my mother puts her hands on my shoulders and bends to look me full in the face.

“May—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“God favours your father,” she says. “You know that, don’t you, Hal? There is nothing to fear.”

“I know,” I say. “May I have a drink now, please?”

♦   ♦   ♦

When my drink has been fetched and my mother and I are in her chamber, I say, “Why did Grandmama ask who you want to win, like that?”

My mother’s been busy with two of her gentlewomen, unpacking some clothes from a newly arrived trunk. Now she looks at me sharply. For a moment she seems to hesitate, then she comes over and takes my hand. She says, “You’ve heard of the man they call the Pretender?”

I nod.

“Well, he claims he is my brother: Richard, Duke of York.”

“But I’m Duke of York!”

“Exactly – so you are. It’s the title given to the king’s second son. When I was a child, my father was king, so the younger of my two brothers was made Duke of York. And your father is king now, so you – as his second son – are Duke
of York too.”

“You mean there are two of us with the same title?”

“No, sweetheart. My brothers died years ago. This man, the Pretender, is telling lies. He isn’t my brother, and he has no right to any title.”

I’m sitting on a wooden chest. She sinks down next to me and sighs, putting my hand back in my lap and patting it. “But your grandmother… is worried I might not believe that. She thinks I’m hoping my brother is still alive. She thinks I’m hoping the Pretender really is him. And that I might want him to come with an army and take the crown and be king. It’s all completely ridiculous.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. I drain my cup. I say, “Why doesn’t Grandmama like you?”

“Oh!” My mother stands up suddenly. She takes my cup and puts it on a nearby table. “She
does
, she just…” There’s a pause. More quietly she says, “For complicated reasons.” She looks at me. She can see I’m still expectant; bending to hook my hair behind my ear, she whispers, “Because I have more royal blood running in my veins than either she or your father do. She can’t stand that.”

I stare at her for a moment, my eyes wide.

I don’t think that’s the reason, though. I think it’s that my mother laughs and makes people happy. When I was younger I thought she might be an angel. She’s certainly the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I wish she could live all the time at Eltham, with my sisters and me. Every day we could shoot together, and go riding – I’d love that. Instead she has to live at Court with my grandmother who doesn’t like her, and my father who is so serious and scary – it can’t be much fun.

Our family seems divided: my mother and I are on one side, my father and grandmother and my older brother
Arthur are on the other. I can’t think why, but that’s how it’s always been. We even look different: I’m like my mother’s family – all solid and rosy-cheeked, with red-gold hair – while my brother is like my father: dark-haired, and wiry like a whippet.

My mother is standing near me now, giving instructions to her women. I reach out and slip my hand into hers. When I tug it, she looks down at me and I say, “Don’t worry, Mama. When I am a man, I will look after you.”

For a moment I think she’s going to laugh. But then she puts her face level with mine and her expression is very serious. “I can see him, you know, Hal – the man you will be one day. I can see him looking out through your eyes.” She hugs me tightly. “May God keep you safe, sweetheart.”

Later, when I’ve been shown to my own bedchamber, I catch sight of myself in the looking glass. I am big for my age and usually I think I look quite grown up. But today my reflection seems young, and rather scared. I twitch my face – pull it into a confident shape. Then I try to fix in my mind how this feels from the inside. So I can make sure I don’t look scared again.

My father is never scared, I’m certain of that.
Somewhere out there, right now, he’s marching at the head of his army. His sinewy body is encased in magnificent armour. His broadsword is ready to swing into men’s flesh, to visit God’s anger on those who dare rebel against him. I kneel up on the window seat and try to imagine it.

It’s not much of a view I’m looking at, though – I can’t even see out of the Tower. The window of my bedchamber looks inwards, onto a courtyard. Even early on a June morning, it’s not cheering. In the shadows, the walls weep damp green streaks. I breathe on the window and start to draw a dragon with my finger.

Behind me something’s rustling, like a hedgehog in a pile of leaves. It’s my servant, Compton, who’s kneeling on the rush-strewn floor, rummaging in a trunk. He’s already helped me to dress, in an outfit of my own colours as Duke of York: mulberry-red and blue. So: fine white shirt, red doublet and hose, and a short, loose blue velvet jacket on top, embroidered
with gold. Now his task is to search for the matching hat: blue velvet, with a pearl and ruby brooch and a red feather. I can’t go to Mass without my hat.

“I don’t think… no…” He’s carefully lifting the last few layers at the bottom of the trunk. “I’m sorry, sir, I must have packed your hat-case in one of the other boxes. I’ll have to go down to the hall and see if they’re in yet.”

I’m drawing the flames coming out of the dragon’s mouth. I say, “How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?”

Compton stands and brushes stray rush-stems off his legs. “A few days? A week or two? Until the rebels can be persuaded to disperse or else there’s a pitched battle. It can’t be long, either way.”

“And what if that man comes with an army?”

“Which man?”

“The Pretender.”

Compton shakes his head. Being fourteen, he is a man of the world, and always seems to be up with the latest news. “He won’t dare land here, sir – not unless the rebels defeat your father’s army. And they won’t manage that. So. You don’t need to worry about him.”

Compton makes for the door now, but an idea occurs to him and he turns back, with a new look of helpfulness on his face. “Would you like to put a stake on it, sir? Not, obviously, on the outcome. God knows—” he crosses himself, “we are certain of that. Just on the number of days we’ll stay here?”

My belt and purse are lying on the table beside me. I open the purse and count the contents carefully. “Sixpence says five days or more?”

Compton sucks in his lips.

“I don’t have much with me!” I tilt the purse towards him as proof.

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Five days exactly, though.”
He catches the coin I throw to him, tosses it into the air, bounces it off his elbow and, catching it again, secretes it somewhere inside his doublet.

As he closes the door behind him I turn to the window again, and rub off the dragon with my sleeve. Down in the courtyard, a covered cart is coming in through the Inner Ward gate, and servants are running from the hall doors opposite, ready to unload it.

I watch them, and think of Compton’s confidence. I pick through his words carefully, like counting out the coins. I often do this with things grown-ups say.

He won’t dare land here, sir – not unless the rebels defeat your father’s army. And they won’t manage that. So. You don’t need to worry about him
.

Compton’s certainty is like a blanket, comforting and warm, but a tiny part of me still wonders: how does he know? I’ve heard some of the servants say that God is angry because people are bad, and so He is sending more wars to punish everyone and that this man – the Pretender – will start up the civil wars again, the ones that raged for years and years before I was born and that my father put a stop to.

But Mistress Denton, who is in charge of our household at Eltham, slaps anyone she hears talking like that, so maybe it’s not true. Or maybe it
is
true, but it’s wicked to talk about it. Mistress Denton’s always on a sharp lookout for wickedness.

There’s a tap on the door.

“Excuse me, sir. May we put this in here?”

Two servants shuffle in, carrying another trunk between them.

I say, “Did you see Compton on the way up?”

“No, sir. Shall I fetch him, sir?”

I shake my head.

If he’s not on his way up yet I can look for Raggy, my old
scrap of cradle-blanket. I hope it’s been packed. I’m always afraid Mistress Denton will throw it away. She threatens to all the time; she says I’m too old to be attached to something so babyish. But I need Raggy, especially at a time like this.

I’d like to find my book of stories about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, too. I’ve just got up to a really exciting passage about Sir Galahad and I want to know what happens next.

So, when the servants have shut the door behind them, I climb down from the window seat and grab the bunch of keys Compton’s left on a shelf by the door. One by one, I try the keys in the lock of the trunk they’ve just brought in. The fourth fits. Turning it, I lift the lid.

The trunk is full to the brim. First layer: large bags of dried rose petals to perfume clothes; I discard them on the floor. Next: my red and black cloak and two doublets. Then I fling out three pairs of hose. Raggy, to my joy, is lying just beneath, on top of something hard that’s covered in black velvet. It’s not a book box, this hard thing; it’s large, curved unevenly and – running along the centre – there is something ridged like a spine.

I prod it. For a moment, staring stupidly, I can’t think. There is something horrible about how solid this thing is – I sense that, even before I register the curl of straw-coloured hair at the collar, even before I see that it is a person: a boy, bigger than me, folded over, face down, inside the trunk, with his forehead to his knees. There is no movement in his back, no breathing, and a terrible thick feeling to the flesh beneath the clothes, like a lump of cold meat.

Scrambling up, I lurch back across the room until I bang into one of the bedposts. I’ve got Raggy rammed against my mouth; I can taste vomit. I swallow, breathing hard. My heart’s hammering, but in the room there’s silence. Nothing moves.

What should I do? Wait till Compton comes and finds me, quivering here like a hunted hare?

I make myself walk to the trunk, though I keep my focus to one side of it; I can’t bear to look at it directly. Slowly, slowly, my fingers reach down to the black velvet. Summoning all my courage, I watch them as they touch it. And freeze, confused. Then I spread my fingers and grab. The velvet crumples in my hand. It is one of my doublets – it is empty.

I am scrabbling now, clutching fistfuls of cloth and flinging them out of the trunk. Nothing, nothing, nothing – except the clothes and, beneath them, the bare wooden floor of the box. The body is not there.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Compton is standing in the open doorway, staring at me. He’s holding a hat-case in one hand and one of my best daggers and a sword-belt in the other.

I sit back on my heels, panting, and wipe a hand across my mouth. Clothes are strewn everywhere. I say, “I don’t know.”

BOOK: VIII
7.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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