NINETEEN

ANNE DID NOT KNOW how she lived through the time that followed. Day followed day with nothing but a crushing sense of anticipation, a dread of something unknown. Every morning she woke tight-chested and breathless, the air of her room pressing down on her as if she had dived fathoms too deep. Day after day she presented a limpid face to the court and hid whenever she could, riding her horse by the river and staring into its brown depths, wishing to dive in, shake off her heavy gown and swim away into the sea where no one could find her. But the sea was no refuge. Edward could not accompany Anne and Mary; no deepsmen would follow a king so old and frail. Anne dreamed of joining the deepsmen, of growing long and muscular like them, strong enough to fight for herself, but her small body was no defence against anyone. The next blessing of the waters, Mary and Anne set off together into the deeps while a reduced court sat on the shores, none of the usual retinue but only Edward, Robert Claybrook, Archbishop Summerscales and a few other great men, watching silently as the girls stripped and submerged themselves in the grey surf, ready to swim out. Edward had spoken to them quietly on the way, advised them on how to speak—childish words asking for friendship, for care—and Mary was prepared to begin such a chant, but at the thought, Anne’s heart sank. The deepsmen would not long protect a country with only children at its helm. It was strength they respected, not appeals to their better nature. Anne pinched her mouth tight and gripped Mary’s wrist as they set out, telling her quietly in the underwater language: Be careful. Stay silent. And Mary only nodded, twisting her wrist out of Anne’s grip and reaching to take her hand. To stay in sight of one another was in no way necessary, but Anne held her sister’s hand, grateful for the momentary comfort.

Out in the bay, the deepsmen seemed vast, long-bodied like horses and great-armed like blacksmiths. Mary began by chanting a greeting, but the voices boomed around them: Are you alone? Had they no support, or was it down to them, two young girls in the sea?

Mary’s hand tightened on Anne’s, and Anne steadied herself in the water. There was nothing for it but a bold face.

Click, she said, naming the strongest of the deepsmen. It was guesswork, memory, terrible risk, but if she didn’t dare it now, they were lost. Rattle. The names were untranslatable, but she remembered them from happier times, like the names in a favourite story from childhood. Anne held herself up in the water and named each of them, identifying them. She named each of them in turn, then put on her boldest face. My sister, she said. Me.

There was a moment’s pause and then Click reached for her, a strong arm darting out to grasp her shoulder. Anne dived, swimming down, remembering the motions Erzebet had swum through, wrapping her legs around his waist then swimming away, brushing her body against his, a dance to and fro, offering and retreat. His skin was rough and cold in the water, but as she swam in and darted back, his grip did not connect with her, his crushing hands and black claws stayed out of her flesh.

Mary floated in the water wordless, watching as Anne swam in and out. I am a princess, Anne told herself in the solitude of her own mind, as she forced herself to continue, stroking his skin with placating hands. They are not of my kind. This is nothing. I groom an animal for my country. It was not impossible if she kept her teeth set and concentrated on the cold of the water against her skin, ignored what her hands were doing. It was not difficult. Compared with the grabbing hands and baffled lust of her uncle, it was not difficult. Anne swam and caressed, offering all she could in the name of England, striving to keep the deepsmen content with the only thing she could give.

Edward did not ask on the shore how she had kept the deepsmen loyal, and Mary did not speak of it to her. The girls sat in their coach on the way home, dripping wet, one on each side. Anne saw tears in Mary’s eyes, but Mary cried too easily these days. The weight still sat on Anne’s chest, the dread of something terrible happening. The moments with the deepsmen in the sea had not lifted its pressure. Therefore, what had happened could not be terrible. Anne sat alone, salt water running down her cold skin, and lifted her head. She had to carry on living.

She did not speak of what happened in the sea when she made her next confession. It could not be a sin to keep England safe. She was not certain, but could not ask Samuel. She could not speak of it.

If she was wrong, if she had sinned, then she was committing a mortal sin by making an incomplete confession, by taking Communion when she was not in a state of grace. If she was wrong, then every breath she drew, she drew in sinfulness. But there was no other means she could think of to keep the deepsmen placated, which meant she would have to do it again next blessing of the waters, and the blessing after that, and the blessing after that, until she was old enough to fight. She could not afford to hear anyone tell her that she shouldn’t do it.

More and more, Anne prayed for solitude. She did not want to be lonely, but it was hard to think of an alternative.