FOURTEEN

THE DAY AFTER the funeral, Anne went to the Bishop.

She had said almost nothing to anyone, only chanted the burial rites then fallen silent as the body went under. She returned to the palace, letting herself be ushered from place to place. She was unresisting, but she wouldn’t touch her food.

All night, she lay huddled under her blankets. Every rush of wind outside her window, every creak of wood outside her door, made her eyes fly open, staring into the dark. Clasped in her hand was a crucifix Erzebet had given her the previous New Year, a silver-and-pearl cross that felt smoother in her hand than the sharp-edged diamonds and sapphires she was often expected to wear, given by courtiers with some idea of complementing her blue face. It seemed to Anne that it was for the sake of the crucifix that she was staying awake: if she were to fall asleep, it might slip from her hand into the bedclothes, be bent by a careless roll, lose a pearl among the linen, even slip out of sight, not to be found. The thought of anything happening to it was so horrifying that the little cross felt charged with danger, but she couldn’t bear to put it aside. She lay awake, whispering soundlessly into the creaking, rustling quiet: Mother of God, protect me. Holy Queen, help me. Stella Maris, save me.

In the morning, she rose hot-eyed and tousled, and addressed Alice: “I wish to pray with Bishop Westlake.”

It would have been easier if Westlake had come to her, but Anne wanted to go and see him. She refused offers of bearers, help with her canes. She laid aside her carved mourning canes for the ones she usually used, smooth oak. Her maid Alice protested a little at the impropriety, but Anne didn’t answer except to say, “And I want another mourning dress. This one is too heavy. See to it.” Erzebet had had no patience with impractical things.

Anne walked by herself to meet Westlake in the chapel. The going was difficult, but her walk this way was about the same distance as his. If he could limp halfway, so could she. When she got there, he was already waiting. His face was grave; though lines scored his mouth and brow, he did not have the crumpled appearance Edward had. Rather, the wrinkles seemed like scars, cuts of expression made in younger skin, a frown of thought on his brow and the remnants of smiles around his mouth—along with deeper twists made from an expression she had often seen, the stern pinching-in of his mouth as he rested his weight for step after brief step on his damaged leg.

Anne hesitated before him, gripping the familiar wood of her canes for comfort. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Over her black dress, the pearl crucifix had been a reassuring adornment, but now it felt light, as if it were about to float away.

Westlake got to his feet and motioned her into a chair, saying only, “My lady Princess.” Anne struggled as usual to sit without toppling, a complex balancing act that required keeping her canes in hand at all times if she wished to retain any dignity, but Westlake did not offer to help her, merely seating himself, slowly, one hand gripping hard on the back of his chair as he extended his left leg with steady, careful grace. Except for his hand on her shoulder, no one had touched Anne for days but Claybrook and Lady Margaret when they had carried her away from Erzebet; Westlake’s failure to fuss awkwardly around her chair as most courtiers did, uncertain how to help and too dutiful to touch the princess uninvited, was soothing, but it did not make it any easier to talk to him.

“How are you this morning, my lady Anne?” Westlake said. He spoke quietly, as if he actually wanted to know. Her name came easily off his tongue. It should have sounded wrong, was probably a mistake: “my lady Anne” was the address for a noblewoman, not a princess. But at the sound of it, something tugged inside her. So very few people called her by name.

Anne looked at her hands for a moment. “Why did you come to court, my lord Bishop?” she asked.

“My lady Princess?” Westlake looked at her curiously, apparently unoffended.

“Your leg must trouble you,” Anne said. “If you stayed at home, you could have a staff to help you walk. But you come to court.”

Westlake did not look uncomfortable at the question. “I wished to serve God, my lady Princess.”

“Could you not serve him at home?”

The Bishop did not answer for a moment. His eyes rested on her, dark blue-grey like a faded garment. “Do you wish to talk about your mother?” he said.

The question was a shock, too overwhelming to answer. “What happened to your leg, my lord Bishop?” Anne said in an unsteady voice.

Westlake smiled. It was a small smile, his mouth stretching only slightly outwards, but it softened his face a great deal. “I fell from a horse when I was about your age, my lady Princess, and broke it. It had to be set.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I was fortunate not to die of the injury, my lady Princess. And more fortunate that the surgeon did not need to remove it. I can only thank God for his favour.”

“But you were unlucky to fall,” Anne said, anxiously aware that this was questioning God in His own house but too miserable to abandon the conversation.

Westlake smiled again. “That was my bad riding, my lady Princess. I am lucky God smiles even on such poor horsemen as myself.”

For just a moment, a smile warmed itself at the corners of Anne’s mouth. The movement was her undoing: the moment she felt it, her face remembered how to feel, and then she was crying, her eyes clenched shut, her mouth beyond her control, everything in her slipped loose from its moorings.

Westlake reached out and took hold of her hand, clasping it between both of his. He was not a warm-blooded man, and his touch was cooler than most courtiers’, but the pressure of his palm either side of her chilled fingers, like blankets and mattress cradling a sleeper, was the only comfort in a swaying world. Anne cried and cried, gripping her small, webbed fingers around Westlake’s hand, until she lost track of time altogether and there was only the sound of her sobbing voice.

It was a good while before she managed to draw breath and swallow, trying to rein herself in. Westlake removed his hand long enough to draw a handkerchief from his sleeve, and, tilting her chin up, wiped her eyes. Anne swallowed again, blinked, struggled for a voice to speak with.

“I—I do wish to speak about my mother,” she said. The word mother was somehow no harder to say than any other word.

“Is it true you were present at her death?” the Bishop asked.

Anne nodded. “What is your Christian name, my lord Bishop?” The question was an intimate one, but it was too disorienting to know the man’s surname alone, so Anne decided to exercise her royal prerogative.

“Samuel, my lady Anne.” He said her name kindly, showing no resentment.

“My lord Samuel. I do not wish, I, I do not wish to speak of it.”

Samuel Westlake did not push the question, merely sat and waited for her to speak again.

“Is your health recovered, Samuel?” The name was reassuring, and Anne said it again.

“I am very well, I thank you,” Westlake said. “I heard that in your kindness you sent me medicine in my illness.” His eyes were on her again, and despite their dark colour, there was a brightness to them that made Anne uncertain how to look back at him. “I am most grateful, my lady Princess. I have prayed many times that God would smile upon you for your charity.”

Anne blushed, placed an anxious hand up as her cheeks glowed their embarrassing blue. “I did not know if you had been told,” she said. “I did not tell the doctor to tell you it was me.”

“No, my lady Princess, but Master Shingleton mentioned your kindness when I was recovering,” Westlake said. “I must thank you again for your goodness. It was a most Christian act.”

“Did Master Shingleton use the horn?” Anne said.

“I believe he did,” Westlake nodded. “Though I was too ill to ask what was in his medicines at the time of taking them.”

Anne was fingering her pearl cross, thinking of the pearl she had given to purchase the horn. Erzebet had been angry with her for spoiling her dress, but Anne could not regret it. The dress had not been Erzebet’s gift. “I am glad you are well, my lord Samuel,” she said. “I do not wish to see—suffering is a curse difficult to bear.”

“We must look to our Saviour, my lady Princess,” Westlake said. He patted her hand again as he said it, and Anne thought of Christ upon the cross. Just at the moment, thoughts of the Five Wounds, the scourging and the crown of thorns and the nails, were too painful to consider.

“I have prayed to the Virgin,” Anne said. “But I do not know what to do.”

Westlake picked up her hand. “You have been kind and charitable to me, my lady Princess,” he said. “If I may counsel or comfort you in any way, I am your man.”

Anne looked at him, towering over her in his chair. “I thank you,” she said. “I do need your help.”

“Name your wish, my lady Princess.”

Anne hesitated. “I—have heard of your charity, your mercy,” she said. The burned bastard was in her mind, the slaughtered child Westlake had wished to spare. Erzebet had held her when she asked for mercy. Erzebet had also ordered the child burned alive. Her mother was dead, and Anne was lost in an incomprehensible wilderness.

“Name your wish, Princess Anne,” Westlake said. “I say again, if I may help you, I am your man.”

“Samuel …” Anne said. “My mother died of poison. Someone put poison in her bathwater.”

Westlake crossed himself, not taking his eyes off Anne. “May God receive her Majesty’s soul.”

“Someone killed my mother,” Anne said. “I need you to help me find out who.”