The King’s Daughter. Christie Dickason

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СКАЧАТЬ to bury myself in the gentle patterns of life at Combe, as if they were the last, precious warmth of my bed on a freezing winter morning. I startled Lady Harington by my sudden meek application to needlework, and my prompt appearances for Scripture reading and the endless cycle of meals and prayers five times a day. Though the king had forbidden me the diet of history, classics and philosophy prescribed for Henry, I was allowed languages and womanly arts. To the amazement of my tutors, I tried to forget myself in my lessons.

      Sometimes, I surprised even myself and managed to forget the worm of fear and guilt when French words brought my whole mouth alive, or Italian rolled off my tongue. When singing, playing my lute, and practising on my virginal, I forgot all else.

      Also, because a princess must dance when introduced at court, I had to learn. Against the grain of their own stern morality, the Haringtons hired a dancing master. Under his knowing eye, with Mrs Hay watching us all, I practised how to curtsey. I advanced and returned. I glided, stamped and dipped. And sometimes, swooping across the floor or reversing in a turn, I experienced an instant of free flight. How could I not feel pure joy when every muscle was alive, riding the pulse of a drum?

      Even better, Anne had to learn too, so that I could practise dancing with a partner. Inevitably, as she was short, dainty and neat, while I was tall, long-limbed and wild-haired, I most often ended up dancing the man’s part. When the dancing master at times insisted that Anne play the man so that I could practise my proper part, and she then tried to guide or to lift me, we would grow helpless with giggles.

      I rode every day but Sunday, always under guard, chiefly on Wainscot, a little mare who was the lovely pale silvery brown of Russian oak, my favourite horse among the score stabled for me at Combe, now that Clapper was gone. Every day, I imagined Henry riding beside me, smiling at me across the space between us on the crags above Edinburgh, while the heads and haunches of our dogs bobbed up and down above the long silver-tasselled grass.

      When Lady H was not watching, I helped the stable grooms with their combing and brushing and tried not to think about Clapper and Abel White. I never rode in the forest on the far side of the ford.

      To fill any gaps in those quiet days, into which thoughts might otherwise rush, I wrote letters. I spent hours practising my signature in different sizes and coloured inks, including gold, to discover which self I should send out into the world.

      Above a golden signature, I wrote in French to the Queen of France, whose son I might one day marry if my father had his way. With a chilly heart and in plain oak gall ink, I wrote formal, perfectly spelled and much re-copied letters of devotion to my father. In reply, I received stern admonitions drafted in a secretary’s neat, official hand.

      I wrote often to Henry, now at either Windsor or Richmond. He sent back loving letters to me, full of tilts, swords and horses. I read and re-read them, searching for secret meaning but still found no hint of my warning. My own letters to him grew harder to write. The brother in my mind was fading. I was wearing him out with overuse, rubbing him thin and ragged at the edges.

      One day, after feeling out of sorts and shouting at Anne, I discovered a pink stain on the back of my smock. A month later, the pink stain reappeared, a darker red this time, and my stomach ached dreadfully. I knew then that I must be dying. The worm of fear had gnawed away my vitals. The weight of guilty secrets had torn my innermost tissues. I was bleeding to death. My life would slowly seep away from that mysterious opening between my legs and no one but me would ever know why. I refused food for the rest of the day. It was best to get it over and done.

      That night, one of my chamberers provided rags and explained that I would not die but had begun my monthly bleeding, which would continue forever, until I grew old. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or oppressed by her information. For reasons I did not understand, this messy, uncomfortable inconvenience also meant that I must now have Anne as my bed-fellow every night.

      Though good-natured, Lady Anne Dudley was cursed by a sense of the obvious. ‘Look, there’s a butterfly,’ she would announce. Or she might observe, ‘It’s raining today.’ Or, ‘Aren’t those flowers red!’

      I knew that she liked elderberries and disliked rhubarb, liked meat pies, disliked sauces made with ground almonds or wild garlic. I knew that she avoided melons for fear that they would make her belch. I also knew that she snored gently, just like Belle.

      ‘I shall sew with red silk today,’ she would say. ‘No! The blue is far better for this flower…the centre of it, in any case. What do you think, my lady? Perhaps yellow for the petals? Or would blue be prettier for the petals and yellow for the centre, do you think?’

      On the other hand, she was almost always cheerful and willing. ‘Whatever you wish,’ she would say. ‘Shall I find Belle’s other collar, then?’ Or ‘I shall go at once and change into my riding skirts…’

      Soon after she arrived at Combe, we had become the angel and the imp. I felt safe deciding that we should dig a secret cave in the hay barn where we might talk unheard. Or that we jump from an upper window to test whether our skirts would spread to slow our decent. Anne always agreed to whatever I proposed, but if she turned pale and silent when she trudged at my side, I would take pity and turn back—for her sake, I would tell myself, but with secret relief.

      When we began to share a bed each night, I made the best of it, and entertained myself by whispering to her in the dark that the wind thrumming under the roof was the Death Drummer who always played before someone died. Or that trowies lived under the stones of the Smite ford and would reach up and pull her down if she tried to cross…I had seen one myself, I assured her.

      Sometimes I frightened her with tales of a wild and unruly Scotland, where, I said, I was allowed to ride for miles by myself, seeing only the eagles and the seals on the rocks. ‘And at dinner,’ I would tell her, ‘the nobles put their elbows on the same table as the king. And had such fierce debates that they leapt up and hacked at each other with their knives until blood flew through the air, and you didn’t know whether you drank wine or blood from your glass.’

      ‘You must find England very tame and tedious,’ she said once.

      Stricken by her look of misery, I continued to lie and assured her that she and I entertained ourselves so well that I hardly ever thought of Scotland at all, anymore.

      My guardian, Lord Harington, continued to be kind enough to me and always respectful, never raising his voice in anger, and guiding me as if I had been his own daughter. In the absence of other parents, I might have loved him.

      But one night, soon after I had first arrived at Combe, I had attempted to spy, to learn more about my new home. Hidden in the stairwell, I overheard him complaining to his cousin, who was also named John Harington, a godson of the old queen, and now, so I was told, one of my brother’s gentlemen.

      ‘Will you try to have a word when you’re next at court? The king has ignored my last letter.’ My guardian sighed. ‘She’s a heavy charge laid upon me by his majesty—and likely to prove a costly one.’

      I flattened myself against the wall of the staircase, grateful to be wearing a soft gown. There was a long pause, during which I held my breath and felt my pulse begin to thump in my ears.

      ‘I know that his majesty is concerned with weightier matters than a daughter,’ Lord Harington went on. ‘But perhaps, coz, you might think how to prod his memory on the subject of the promised allowance for keeping her. Or have a word with Cecil.’

      My heart, already half on offer, had slunk back to its kennel with its tail between its legs. Now, since our return from the execution of the Gunpowder Traitors, I felt that his СКАЧАТЬ