SIXTEEN

ALLARD’S WIFE, MARGARET, was a woman Henry seldom saw. He had little desire for her company: even from a distance, she did not look reliable. In his presence, she displayed an attitude similar to that he’d seen her show around the estate’s guard dog. That barking, grim-jawed beast had frightened Henry when he was little, and he supposed that was what lay behind her behaviour, but he had mastered his fear of the animal, riding to its kennel one day when he was unobserved, dragging it out by the chain when it barked at him and laying about it with a stick. The dog was almost as big as he was, but he was able to lift it one-handed, and the animal went from snarling fury to cowed whimpering by the time Henry was done with it. Afterwards, he left it a piece of fish he had kept from his dinner, and it gave him no more trouble.

While he had no desire for Margaret Allard to attack him, even if the idea had not been ridiculous—her husband had been no match for him at seven years old, and Margaret was far smaller—he could not respect her timidity. What he mostly felt was a sense of unease: a woman so constantly frightened was like a fish that might dart in different directions. Henry had never consciously tried to scare her, and her tense-handed wide-eyed fear in his presence deepened his mistrust of her. Her high voice and swaying movements were interesting, different, and he would have liked to get closer to her, test the heft of her body and the texture of her flesh, but, unwilling though he was to confess it, she made him uncomfortable.

As a result, when she fell from her horse and broke her leg one day in Henry’s eleventh year, he was not overly concerned. She meant something to Allard, who went around stiff-faced and wet-eyed, but her injury had little effect on Henry’s own life.

Her fate, though, hung in the balance, and Henry discovered he was supposed to care about this. John came around looking grave and said earnestly, “I am sorry about your mother.”

The phrase alarmed Henry for a moment, and he gave an angry scowl. “What do you mean?”

“Her accident,” John said, puzzled. “How is her leg?”

Understanding dawned: John was talking about Margaret Allard. “Mortified, I think,” he said. “Why do you call her my mother?”

John was not often short of words, but this question seemed to quiet him. “Will she die, do you think?” he asked after a moment.

“Perhaps,” Henry said. She wouldn’t starve with people to feed her, leg or not, but wounds festered on land.

“Has she seen a surgeon?” John seemed concerned about the woman. This was amiable of him, as Henry didn’t think he knew her very well.

Henry shook his head. “I have seen no one come,” he said.

“Why not?” John looked frustrated.

Henry shrugged, a gesture he had learned from his friend. “Maybe Allard thinks a physician would see me and tell the king.”

“My father will find one,” John said firmly. “We shall need a physician when we have an army, we could begin now.”

“If you wish,” Henry said. A physician might be useful, and Margaret might as well be treated as not. “But why do you call her my mother?”

John looked at him a moment more, then sighed. “Because you live with her, and she and her husband care for you, or have their servants attend you, and they try to advance you. That is usually what a father and mother do. By adoption, that is what I thought they were to you.”

“You look like your father,” Henry said. “I do not look like Allard. I only live with him.” A thought struck him. “You have your father’s name. Does this mean people think I am called Henry Allard?” The idea of people going around behind his back, applying names to him without his knowledge, was a disagreeable one.

“Perhaps,” John said. “Not a name you should keep when you are king, though. The Allard family is a small one, not powerful or rich. It is not a strong name—that is, a name that will make you sound strong.” Years of experience had taught John to speak to Henry as literally as possible.

Henry wasn’t surprised. “Do you call me Henry Allard?” He didn’t want his friend misnaming him in secret.

John shook his head. “Just Henry.” He reflected for a moment. “Did you have another name, before?”

Henry froze. He did not like to talk about his time in the sea, even with John. “Yes,” he said. “But you could not pronounce it.”

“What was it?”

“It means nothing,” Henry said. “Could you find a physician for Margaret? I would like to meet one.”

John sighed. “I will ask my father.”

John must have asked to some effect, as two days later a physician arrived. The days had passed unhappily in the house: Margaret lay behind a closed door, but Henry had occasionally caught the sound of her, harsh, guttural moans he had not known a landsman could produce. The moaning voice troubled him. He did not especially like Margaret, but she lived in his house, and it nagged at him to hear her hover between life and death with no decisive action taken either way. Allard, he felt, should be doing something for her. His reluctant concern did not mean he liked Margaret any better—if anything, he felt some resentment of her for driving him to worry—but still, he was troubled by a sense of responsibility.

So, when Henry was ushered to his room by Allard because the physician was due, Henry objected less than he otherwise might to the idea of confinement. Allard was white, his hands shaking, as he herded Henry upstairs. Henry, who disliked the crutches he was supposed to walk on, climbed the stairs on all fours by way of asserting himself, but then went quietly to his chamber and stayed by the door, listening for what would happen.

It was some time before Henry could hear anything more than murmurs, strain his sharp ears though he might. There was a pause, whispers, the sound of instruments.

After a while, there was screaming. Henry had never heard such sounds before, not from any man or woman. Margaret was shrieking like a spitted rabbit, high, harsh screams mingled with human sobs, and the noise of it froze Henry in fascination for a moment, listening with intent ears to this new, strange sound. Then he decided that this would not do, that the surgeon must be making matters worse, possibly even taking advantage of Margaret’s weakness to do something to her. He might attack or injure her or take her flesh for food, and no stranger was to do that to someone in his household, however tiresome they might be.

Ignoring his sticks, he crossed the floor on all fours and reached for the door, only to find it locked.

Furious, Henry considered breaking it down, or at least trying to. Soberer thoughts prevailed: it would take a while, and by the time he had succeeded, Margaret would probably be dead. Instead, he called out: “Allard! Allard!” Allard was worried about people seeing him, and frightened of Henry making a noise when strangers were in the house. If he couldn’t protect his wife, maybe the fear of discovery might stir him to action.

There was a sound of running footsteps, and Allard appeared in the door, pale as a deepsman. He looked at his charge, but seemed to find no words.

“You should stop the surgeon, he is hurting your wife,” Henry told him.

Allard stared for another moment.

“Can you not hear her? You should do something.”

Allard came into the room and sat down on the floor beside Henry, careless of his neat clothes.

“You should stop the surgeon,” Henry said again, louder, as Allard seemed in some kind of stupor.

Allard looked at him, then, to Henry’s discomfiture, reached out and stroked the boy’s shaggy head. “Her leg has mortified,” he said in a hoarse voice. “The surgeon has to amputate it to save her from dying.”

“Amputate?” The word was unfamiliar.

“Cut it off.” Allard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But then she will be no use,” Henry said. Having said it he realised that she would still be faster than he was, given a crutch, but Allard withdrew the stroking hand. The woman had never been much use, for all Henry had seen, but Allard seemed distressed at her pain nonetheless, and though he thought Allard’s attitude towards her unreasonable, Henry sensed a need to rephrase. “Will this not make her worse?” he asked. Cuts let in diseases in this dry, contaminated world, and to create a gaping gash where there had once been a limb sounded like madness to him.

“It may save her,” Allard said. His voice was barely a whisper. “And she will die if he does not do it.” The screams had stopped, leaving a grim silence behind.

Henry thought of the cleaning fish in the ocean, little pecking silverlings that nibbled parasites off his flanks. That was as far as medicine had advanced among the deepsmen. If you were injured in the sea, you recovered or you died with no one mauling you in the meantime. “Is the surgeon wise?” he asked.

Allard drew a breath, grasping his hands together. “He is the King’s surgeon, Henry. If he is not, there is no one better.”

“Then he must do what he can,” Henry said. The damage was done now; they might as well make the best of it.

Allard reached out and patted him again. Henry did not much care for the caress; his head was vulnerable and best left alone, in his view. However, Allard tended to pat him when he was pleased. There was an advantage here worth pressing.

“Will I meet the surgeon?” Henry asked. “You said he worked for the King.”

“Why do you say that, Henry?” Allard’s hands were shaking in his lap, his eyes on the door.

“He could bring me to the King, or kill the King for us. He can use a knife,” Henry said. Personally he preferred a direct route in conflicts, but if no one was going to let him meet the King for years, perhaps this surgeon might be a useful short cut.

Allard closed his eyes for a moment, then got up and headed for the door. “I must go to see my wife,” he said, and closed it behind him. Henry heard the lock click shut.

It was more than an hour later that it opened again, and a stranger was ushered in, Allard hovering tensely behind him.

Henry looked up from the floor, where, frustrated at the enforced idleness, he had been whittling away at one of the canes he was supposed to use for walking with a dagger he was supposed to use for fencing practice. The man standing in the doorway was sturdy, well-fed looking without being flabby: rosy-faced and sandy-bearded, almost fox-haired in colouring. Henry refused to show it, but his heart was beating faster and he held his breath; he was actually a little reassured by Allard’s presence. It was years since he had met a stranger.

The man crouched down, bringing himself as low as Henry. People seldom did that in his experience, and Henry sat still, waiting to see what else the man would do.

“Good day, Henry,” the man said. His voice was cautious but gentle, as if speaking to a small child. “My name is Francis Shingleton.”

Henry stared.

“Would you like to speak to me?” the man persisted.

“Why would I like to speak to you?” Henry demanded. “Why do you ask? Do you mean to offer me something?” His tone was harsh, but in fact the man did not seem that bad. He was clearly wary, which was only sensible of him, but he didn’t have the fixed smile Claybrook did. Possibly he was all right; it would be interesting to see how he reacted to being challenged, anyway.

“Your father said you wanted to meet me,” Francis Shingleton said; his tone was matter-of-fact.

“Allard is not my father,” Henry said, with a little less aggression. The man had a point: he had said he would like to meet a surgeon.

“But you wanted to meet me?”

Henry was not about to concede it. “What were you doing to his wife? Will she live?”

“I hope so.” The reply sounded honest. “It is in the hands of God now. These cases are always difficult.”

God was a phrase associated with the nasty cross of straight-edged wood; Henry associated remarks about this distant being with a refusal to take responsibility. “You mean you do not know,” he said.

“That is right. I do not know.”

Henry nodded. The man gained some credit in his eyes for admitting his ignorance. “Sit down, Shingleton,” he said. “You will be uncomfortable like that.”

Shingleton rose to his feet and found himself a chair. “I cannot say for sure whether Mistress Allard will live,” he said. “But she is more likely to live now than before the surgery. Her broken leg would have killed her, left untreated.” Henry scrutinised the man’s hands. There was only a tiny trace of blood, just inside the rim of the thumb-nail.

“How much can you do if someone is sick?” Henry said.

“Not enough.” Shingleton’s eyes were on him, looking at his hands, his limbs, his face. The gaze was direct, but Henry didn’t feel intruded upon: he was just as curious to see a surgeon. “But we must do what we can.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Henry didn’t like this referring to persons absent. “Do you not mean you must?”

“I must, yes.” Shingleton nodded. “But others like me as well, my lord Henry. People should do as well as they can with the knowledge they can master.”

“When did I become your lord?” Henry said. “You called me Henry when you came in.”

“Did I?” Shingleton frowned, rubbing the backs of his hands together.

Henry sat up. His legs were folded under him and he couldn’t get up from the floor without help; seated on his chair, Shingleton towered above him. As there was no way around this, Henry braced himself more solidly, staring straight into Shingleton’s clean face. “Allard says that you are the King’s surgeon. The King would burn you if you did not tell him I was here. And he will burn me if you do. What are you going to do?”

“Henry.” Allard started forward a little, hands gripped together.

Henry turned to look at him, but said nothing: he saw no need to defend a fair question.

Shingleton looked into his lap for a moment and sighed. “I would not send anyone to the stake,” he said. “I do not care for burnings.”

“Would you not wish to save yourself?” Henry said. Risking burning for your own ends was one thing, but risking it to save an eleven-year-old half-blood you had never met before today was too unlikely to gamble on.

“I am sworn to heal the sick,” Shingleton said. Under Henry’s black stare, he was starting to look a little sweaty. “That is my calling.”

“You do not want to get into battles,” Henry said.

Shingleton shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“But you are the King’s surgeon. The King must always risk battles.”

Shingleton looked back at him. “I never travelled with an army.”

“Do you treat children?”

Shingleton looked startled at the change of tack. “My lord?”

“You speak to me as if I were a child.”

“Excuse me, my lord.”

“I am not condemning you, I wish to know. Do you treat many children? What do you do when you do not wait on the King?”

Shingleton swallowed; the sound was loud in the closed room. “I have a hospital for idiots, my lord. But I do not think you are one.”

Henry let the man sweat another moment before giving him a smile. “No. I am not. But I hear the King’s son is. My friend John says so. Is he right?”

Shingleton drew a breath.

“Shingleton, you can say so in this room,” Henry said impatiently. “The King will not hear you.”

“Yes,” Shingleton said. “He is an idiot. Her Majesty Erzebet is not, but she will not bear him children. Her two daughters are young. I do not wish to see blood, and I fear for the throne. That is the truth, my lord Henry.”

This was good news to hear from an outsider, a man unprompted by Allard or Claybrook. Henry nodded. “So you will not tell the King of me?”

Shingleton shook his head. “It will come to a contest for the throne. Now, or later. I thought before today the threat would come from Spain, or from France. Not from our own shores.”

“I am not a threat to anyone but the King,” Henry said. “And he is old, and his son is an idiot. If you will be good to me now I will be good to you later.”

Shingleton nodded. “Can I ask a favour, my lord?” he said.

“Yes.” Henry did not wish to be friends with this man, but he had decided to think well of him. He was not a soldier, but would be of use if he wasn’t pushed.

“May I examine you?”

“I am not sick,” Henry said. “I am never sick.”

Shingleton looked almost hopeful. “That is good news indeed, my lord. But I would like to learn. The house of Delamere—cousins have married cousins for generations.” Delamere was the King’s family name, Henry remembered. Maybe he could take it for himself later; it was better than Allard. “You are newly out of the sea, my lord, you are healthy. I would like to learn what a healthy King should be, in body.” His eyes were bright.

“If you like,” Henry said. “But do not touch me. I do not like to be touched.”

Shingleton examined Henry, studied him with care and interest. By the time he was finished, the child-idiot tone was gone from his voice. He spoke to Henry the way Allard spoke to Claybrook: with deference.

The following week, Shingleton visited again to check on Margaret Allard, who was beginning to recover. He also came to see Henry. When he appeared before Henry, he did something no one had done before: hingeing his straight landsman’s back and legs, he lowered his head and bowed. The sweep of it brought his head almost level with Henry’s.