THIRTY-FOUR

IT WAS GEORGE NARBRIDGE who brought the letter, and after that, all was thrown into confusion.

Anne had not written to Mary announcing her marriage. She had been waiting until after the coronation. In that time, she had thought often of her sister. Mary had understood things Anne had not, had put a sisterly hand inside Anne’s. She had not been unkind; even for an older child, a pink-cheeked child with perfect health and a clear line to the succession, Mary had been as pleasant as could be expected. But by the time they had parted, it had been Mary who was the crier, Mary who trembled in public while Anne set her teeth and fixed her face and carried her head high. It had been hard having Mary around and keeping her self-control at the same time. There had been too many things Mary might have said, things that Anne could not afford to hear.

Anne was not prepared to see England break up over a French king, not when there was an Englishman on the shore who everyone would accept. It would cause havoc, the blood of thousands would weigh down her soul. But still, she thought of Mary.

What would have happened if Mary had been at home when Samuel found Henry? Anne had faced the court, heard men swearing loyalty to her, seen towering nobles holding out the reins of power and expecting her to grasp them. There was Henry. Even after so short a knowledge of him, already it was hard to picture the world without him: his certainty, his fierceness, his open demands, reshaped life around him so boldly that it was hard to believe he had not always been there. Mary was from another life. When Mary had been there, Edward had held the throne, and Anne had been the baby. She had been too frightened to speak to people. Now there was Henry, and Anne had come out of the shadows, out of the deeps. The new times demanded strength, and she was holding. Mary had kissed her when she was young and confused, had struggled to hold back tears before an audience. What would Anne be if faced again with her big sister?

So she had not written to Mary. Time enough when Henry was crowned. Edward lay dying, and his last day drew closer and closer, even as he held silently to life. There would be a funeral, and a coronation, and she could speak to Mary with silver and pearls on her head and the throne at her back. It was the politic thing to do, and it was also easier. Thinking of Mary right now shook up parts of her heart that she could not afford to disturb. Henry’s prohibition against writing to her gave Anne a breathing space, time to pretend that, among all her other choices, she had not chosen to take the throne from her sister.

It was a long journey to France. Even a fast courier must ride to the coast, find a ship, carry his message along. It was for this reason that Anne was surprised when George Narbridge arrived at her door, bearing a letter.

“You do me honour to bring this yourself, Lord Tamar,” Anne said, bewildered. She and Henry had been seated together indoors, debating when to meet with John. For a lord like Narbridge to act as courier was rare to the point of crisis; no man would come himself when he could send riders to do his work for him.

“I thought the letter should pass through as few hands as possible, your Majesty,” Narbridge said with a low bow. Beside her, Henry stiffened. Bows did not usually antagonise him, not when someone was doing his job, and Anne suffered a momentary distraction, wondering what the problem was.

“Have you read it?” Anxiety prickled against Anne’s skin.

“No, your Majesty. I only spoke to the messenger. He remains on my lands; I have bade him speak to no one.”

“Has the messenger offended you?” Henry said. His voice was far sharper than it should have been; Anne shot a nervous look at his face. He was pale, angry.

Narbridge looked puzzled. “No, your Majesty,” he said. “But this matter is one of secrecy.”

Henry shook his head, as if shaking off a fly. Later, Anne told herself, she would ask him what was troubling him, but the arrival of the letter was too worrying. “We shall read it alone,” she said, reaching out her hand. “What do you know of it?”

Narbridge made a careful bow. “Only,” he said, “that it comes from your Majesty’s sister.”

The letter was short, written in a hasty hand. Mary had crossed and re-crossed the page below her signature so no one could add anything, but there was no need for the precaution; Anne recognised her sister’s script. The letters were almost comforting in their familiarity, but they stretched and straggled across the page and the seal was smudged. Mary had wasted no time before sending this missive.

The letter was signed only “Mary.” There were no greetings from Louis-Philippe, no king’s seal. Holding the letter in shaking hands, Anne could only believe that Mary had not shown it to them before sending it.

“What is the matter?” Henry tapped on her arm with a closed fist. It was a hard push, the kind of blow a soldier might give to a comrade, and Anne winced. Henry did not always know his own strength.

Her throat was tight, and she passed the letter over without speaking.

Henry studied it for a few seconds, the parchment held between his fingertips. “I cannot read,” he said. “What does it say?”

Even with her sister’s words burning in her eyes, Anne blinked. “You cannot read?”

Henry handed back the letter with an impatient air. “I refused to learn when I was a child. Perhaps you should teach me, if you wish me to know. But why does this letter have you so upset? What is in it?”

Anne swallowed, and laid the letter in her lap. Her hands rested lightly upon it, as if she feared to damage it. “Someone has told my sister of our marriage,” she said. “I do not know whether she has spies here, or whether a spy was sent from England, but someone has told my sister.”

Anne’s first thought was to speak to Samuel. Samuel would know what to do.

But Samuel thought she had married a heathen. He thought she was failing to protect the Church. If it really came to it, would he back them against a Christian Frenchman?

God was light, and in Him was no darkness, thought Anne. But she herself did not know what to do. Samuel did not like burning children, did not like death and war. He was a Christian man. But again, she thought of his grey, haggard face, all those years he walked on a damaged leg, surrounded by a court that murmured suspicion. Ambitious, they thought him. And now she was no longer a child looking somewhere, anywhere for reassurance, Anne accepted that it must have been so. No man would walk every step of his life in pain unless he had an iron will. Samuel directed that will towards gentleness, most of the time. But Henry was not a man of God; he was not even merciful, not by nature. If it went against his nature to accept a heathen king, Samuel would not lay his will aside.

“Perhaps we should consult with the court,” Anne said, her voice quiet.

“Why?” Henry’s body was thrumming, the walls closing in on him. There was some kind of attack coming, some predator circling them, passing words where they could not see. The idea of not telling Mary had seemed a simple one to him: everyone seemed to wish an English king, and keeping a secret from this woman he had never known could not be a bad idea if it would help that along. Now it appeared there was division somewhere. It was too close indoors, and he did not like it. He wished, intensely, to have his axe. It had been too long since he had held a weapon in his hands. But what good was an axe against a war of paper and ink? His skin felt dry, the seat beneath him hard and uncomfortable. He struggled to hold back a childish sense of horror at the strictures of land.

“I do not know why I expected otherwise,” Anne said, as if to herself. “Any wise ruler will have spies. You cannot bottle news. We must have spies ourselves, we should look to it. I just did not think it would come this soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Anne was speaking into the distance, to some invisible listener, and it made Henry nervous.

“Mary would have heard soon,” Anne said. “But the distance—it would take some time. I thought we had more days in hand. Someone must have sent a courier, chartered a ship, rode fast all the way to France. I did not think the news would reach her this fast. Dear God, what shall we do?”

“Stop talking to God and talk to me,” Henry snapped. “I am the one who is listening.”

His wife blinked at him. The look of anguish on her face was, he thought, out of proportion to his remark. It was very tiresome of her to talk to some long-dead landsman when he was here and ready to listen to her. She had no business looking so wronged.

Anne drew a breath. “We must think who can have sent the message,” she said. “And we must have as much news from France as possible ourselves. And we must decide what it will mean when Mary knows the truth.”

“Claybrook probably sent it,” Henry said. “He must know we are after him.”

Anne rubbed her glowing face. “Very likely. But I wonder … Samuel looked at me so oddly when I told him you would not swear the oath to uphold the Church.”

“Not that again,” Henry said. “I will not stop anyone talking to your God idea if they wish to, I just will not pretend to be the subject of some foolish word. If people do as I say, they may think as they wish.”

“It matters to landsmen.” Anne swallowed. “If it were Claybrook—if it were him, Henry, we would have him. We could charge him with treason, there would be no question over it, we could hang him and the whole country would consider it justice. Oh, I pray it was Claybrook.”

“I can ask John,” Henry said.

“John will not betray his father, even if his father told him.”

“John would not lie to me.”

Anne shook her head. “This matters less than what we are to do. Henry, we should hold the coronation at once. I can delay writing to Mary for a day or two, if you will take the oath.” Her face was blazing as she spoke, as if she were deep underwater where no light reached.

“You said I would not have to.” Henry’s voice rose. He had told her what his position was. She had accepted it. They had agreed, and that should be the end of the matter.

“Henry, I have spoken to Archbishop Summerscales, he has promised to study the matter. But if you could be baptised before the ceremony, or even during—it is a difficult point to strain, even at the best of times. I—I cannot command men against God, Henry. Nobody can. I would damn myself if I tried. I had hoped he could find some way around it, but now there is no time. If you will swear in the name of God to uphold the Church, I will do it for you, I will do all the upholding. I would like to, I would like to rule in the love of God.” His wife put her hands on his arm, her voice going faster and faster. She sounded as if she was pleading. “Just accept the form of words, it will be no different from when we were married. I will take on the burden. God will protect us both then—I will do everything to do with the Church. But if we could just save this time before I have to write to my sister …”

Henry moved his arm away. “I will not subject myself to some landsman word,” he said. His voice was angry; privately, his heart was pounding, torn between anxiety and hurt. He had thought she liked him. She had lain down obediently and wrapped her arms around him, she had saved his life, she had listened when he complained about all the stupid ceremonies and promised there would be an end to them. Now she was going back on her word. If there was another ceremony after the first, then there would be another, and another, and another. Either she meant her promise or she would bend it when new circumstances arose. “People either lie or they do not, and I will not lie. You should not lie either.”

“I—” Now there were tears gathering in her eyes. Henry shivered with tension. You could not trust people who cried. You cried or you acted. Crying was defeat, surrender, a scream from the stake when nothing was left but the stupid hope that someone might save you—but here she was crying, and still trying to win the argument. It left him ensnared in confusion. “I do not lie to God, God sees into our hearts. I want only to secure what is best for the country.”

Now she wasn’t even listening to him at all. “You swore to be loyal to me.”

“I am, Henry, I am trying to be …” She wiped her eyes, straightened her back. There was a taut look on her face that he did not like at all. “I do not mean to ask you to act against your conscience. But there are many questions at play.” Her voice was hoarse, not as steady as she was trying to make it. “My sister is married to a man who was promised the throne of England. He will want it, whatever we may say. She will want it. It was promised her. We must decide what is necessary, and what we can do.”

“If he wishes for the throne he may fight me for it,” Henry said. It was appalling how easily landsmen overlooked the simplest solutions. “I am willing to chance it. I can hold my own against an inbred prince.”

Anne clasped her hands in her lap. The gesture was a little too careful; the skin over her knuckles strained. “He will not do that, Henry. He will come with an army.”

“Then he is a coward.”

“He wishes to win. He will do what it takes to win. And my sister will act with him, she will have to.” Anne blinked hard, her face gleaming.

“You talk to me as if I were an idiot,” Henry said, angry. “People used to talk to me like that when I was a child, and I will not have you do it.”

“Henry, we will have a battle on our shores. Ships of war will come, and the deepsmen who guard us will have to fight them, and so will our sailors. And if Louis-Philippe can bring a bigger family with him, he can try to turn our deepsmen against us. I would try it, were I in his position. They will bring ships and attack us. It will not be man to man, it will be many, many deaths. I do not want that blood on my hands. I do not want to war with my sister. She did not begin this conflict.”

It sounded bad, but Henry was still angry. He changed to another thought, one that had been troubling him for some time. “If you do not want blood on your hands, why do you keep taking advice from George Narbridge? He is the one who burned a bastard like me. If he had caught me on his lands, I would not be here with you now.”

Anne stared at him, wide-eyed. “Henry, please, let us keep to the point.”

“It is a point that matters to me.”

Anne spread her hands. “He obeyed the law. You were saved because someone broke it. Would you wish to have usurpers breeding against you when you are king?”

“I would not burn them,” Henry snapped.

“What would you do, then?”

“I would take them in,” Henry said. He was casting about a little, but he meant what he said. “They could be my children. My cousins. They could come with me into the sea, they could be useful.”

“They would be threats to your throne.”

“If I could only hold the throne because nobody else like me was alive, I would be a bad king,” Henry said. A dreadful thought gripped him. “Would you burn bastards when you are queen?”

“No.” His wife shook her head, quickly and wretchedly. “No, I do not wish to. But my mother—my mother …” She buried her face in her fingers for a moment, then shuddered. “We are forgetting what is important,” she said. Her voice was a little muffled, and she lowered her hands. “We must decide what to do about this letter. Will you swear to uphold the Church?”

“I will not,” said Henry. “I do not like this Church of yours that blesses burnings and talks nonsense.”

Anne drew a breath. “Then I suppose I must speak to the Archbishop. I do not think I will prevail quickly enough, though. And I should see what intelligence I can learn about Louis-Philippe.”

Henry shook his head. His wife was still crying, tears rolling silently down her face. But it made sense, now. She had given way. Though he was still angry about Narbridge and God, her words cooled something inside him, quickly and thoroughly. He had said no, and she had listened. She was not betraying him after all.

“I can think of another solution,” he said. “You make it too complicated. Leave it with me, and I can solve it.”