TWENTY-TWO

PHILIP HAD NEVER much cared for Mass, and today was no different; as Archbishop Summerscales stood at the altar, intoning the liturgy, he lolled in his pew, banging his hands against the wood of his seat to entertain himself with the noise, occasionally saying something in the deepsmen’s language—move on; hungry. The deepsmen didn’t have a word for “bored,” though clearly that was his problem. Robert Claybrook rose from his seat to try and calm Philip down. He leaned over his prince, spoke quietly into his ear.

“No,” said Philip, giving him a push. It wasn’t aggressive, just the light shove of a child uninterested in a toy being offered him—but Philip was strong, and Claybrook took a hard step back to maintain his balance.

Summerscales raised his voice a little, but he was an old man, no match for Philip’s bellow.

“Mary?” Philip said. He seldom bothered with names when people were actually around him, but since Mary had been sent to France—an insult to the Crown of England, that she had to cross the seas to meet her consort when it was her country that would be ruled, but one that Edward, coughing now and growing more fragile by the day, was in no condition to dispute—he had remembered her name well enough to ask about her. He didn’t seem to miss her, but the explanation (Princess Mary has gone to visit a friend, she will be home soon and happy to see us) seemed to please him, and he enjoyed hearing it repeated.

Anne sat alone in her pew, hands pressed together. Mary had given her a gift before she left, a silver and gold crucifix. It hung on the wall of Anne’s chamber. The pearl cross that Erzebet had given her Anne wore daily, she would not part with it; Mary must have realised Anne would not want a pendant, must have put some consideration into the gift. Anne had not thought to give Mary anything. She had been carried in a separate litter down to the docks as the court went to see Mary off; they had embraced briefly, too briefly for conversation: everyone’s eyes were on them, and Edward had been coughing, Philip complaining, the captain of the ship—a man of consequence, brother to the Baron of Tyne—standing on the gangplank, ready to carry Mary up himself. He wasn’t quite managing to keep from turning his eye to the flapping sails, haste to get underway in every line of his body. Mary had whispered, “Pray for me,” and Anne had kissed her cheek, anxious at Mary’s departure. That Mary had asked for her prayers tugged at her: Mary knew how much time she spent in prayer, knew it was the right thing to ask. And then the captain had come forward, lifted Mary up, and Mary’s weak legs dangled awkwardly as she was carried on board before Anne could think of an equally suitable farewell. Anne raised her hand, but Mary was slung in his arms like a parcel, her head concealed behind his shoulder, and Anne did not think that Mary saw her wave goodbye.

Philip pushed at Claybrook again as Claybrook attempted to explain it. He turned his head, saying again, “Mary!” He spoke pointedly to Westlake.

Westlake quietly left the altar where he had been standing in attendance. The click and scrape of his cane on the stone floor caused most people in the chapel to turn their heads aside, reluctant to witness his offensive ownership of a royal object. Reaching Philip, he sat down beside him. Anne could see in the stoop of his legs that it was easier for him to sit than it had been before Philip had given him a staff.

“Princess Mary has gone to visit a friend …” Westlake said, his voice cheerful and calm. The explanation was, in fact, of Westlake’s devising. Mention of sailing the sea, ships and marriage were all subjects that agitated Philip and led to demands, frustration, raucous clamouring for things he couldn’t have. Claybrook had attempted to reason with Philip, but he had had to accept the formula Westlake improvised one day when Philip had pulled him over to question him: it was incomplete, but it worked. Philip never tired of it.

Samuel’s leg was easier, but there was something in the stillness of his hands that made Anne anxious. Philip was on the pew opposite hers, she was out of his reach, and Samuel was good at calming him down before the word “wife” occurred to him. The dread that he would grab at her did not retreat, but it calmed, just a little, when Samuel stood between them. Samuel’s face was impassive as ever, but Anne could still feel it. He was tense about something.

Robert Claybrook bowed, backed away to his own seat. His face was as stiff as an icon.

As Philip subsided, Westlake rose again, ready to resume his place. He walked past Anne, a little slower than usual; slower than she knew he was capable of. As he passed her, he did not turn his head, but he spoke in a whisper that only her ears could ever have caught.

“My lady Princess, I must speak with you alone.”

Anne lingered after the service was over, hands blamelessly folded and eyes closed, trailing a rosary over her fingers. No one would disturb the Princess at prayer. The congregation filed out, and Anne waited, whispering under her breath. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death …”

It was some time before she heard Westlake’s approach. She finished her decade and laid down her beads. “What is it, Samuel?” she said. “Have you any news of my mother?”

“News of my mother” was how she referred to Erzebet’s death and the questions it had created; it was the only way she could describe it. There had been too little news. Samuel had sent men to make discreet enquiries of apothecaries, but no poison had been found capable of creating such devastation, no one remembered selling any. He had sent spies and asked questions, to no avail. The thought of an answer made Anne’s hands tremble a little, and she folded them carefully in her lap.

Westlake shook his head. “No, my lady Princess. It is another matter.”

He stopped, and Anne looked at him in bewilderment. Self-contained Samuel, her grave confessor, was shaking.

“What is it, Samuel?” she repeated. “If something troubles you, be assured of my aid.”

Samuel swallowed. “My lady Princess,” he said. “I have news that I must trust to someone. I do not know what to do. Can I trust your silence?”

“Of course.” Anne reached out and put an anxious hand on his arm. “What is it?”

Samuel cleared his throat. “I must explain something to you, my lady Princess. You know—you do know, I am certain, that a bastard was executed this year.”

Anne nodded. Erzebet’s static face and oblique lectures on the need for a prince to be strong. That empty day when everyone was gone and no one would tell her where.

“There were rumours, my lady Princess … No one likes a burning.” Westlake rubbed his face. It was a strange gesture for him, freer than usual. Anne had never seen him sit so loosely, as if he were not observed, as if he were alone. “It was a hard business, the burning of a child. And there were rumours afterwards.”

“Rumours?”

Samuel nodded. “The burning took place on Robert Claybrook’s land, not far from here. His priest is a man from the North, John Bridgeman, a good man—a cousin of mine, my lady Princess. We went into the Church together, though he never rose so high as to come to court. But the people of his parish, they were afraid. They swore they had seen a ghost there.”

“A ghost?” Anne shook her head in nervous bewilderment. Bad omens meant disaster for England, the wrath of God, even. God wanted his people to be merciful. Samuel had been right all along, and Erzebet—Erzebet had been wrong. They should not have burned a child.

“The child’s soul, they said, seated on horseback, the child grown into a man. I did not—well, vengeance is the Lord’s, and he judges as he chooses. His ways are not known to us. But the rumour troubled me, my lady Princess. So I asked my cousin to spare me a favour. Some of his parishioners are soldiers, good men, trustworthy. They had not liked the burning either.” Samuel rubbed his face again, raising a little colour in the cheeks. “I asked my cousin, and he asked them. They kept a watch on my lord Claybrook’s land. They did not tell their master they did so.”

Anne blinked. This was a great betrayal of their lord, even if a bishop had asked it. They must have hated the burning. It must have been terrible indeed.

“My lady Princess, I thought it might be a ghost. But I thought it might be a man of flesh, also. I—I do not care for burnings. My lady Princess, I was there, blessing the flames, praying for those people’s souls. I hope I shall live and die an Englishman and loyal to your Majesties, but I wish never again to see such a sight.” The colour stayed in his cheeks, and his voice rose. Anne swallowed. The sight of Samuel angry was so strange, so unfamiliar, that she drew back a little, frightened. “But I could not stand by if there was another bastard in the land.”

Distracted as Anne was, the word took a moment to filter through. “A—another bastard? Do you think it could be?”

Samuel turned to her. She could see his pupils, wide and black, filling his eyes. “My life is in your hands, my lady Princess,” he said. “The soldiers found him. I have him locked in my house.”