Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ is not my princess who is sought. It is I. I am called by Her Grace with no other explanation and so, dressed in the black livery of mourning, arrive at the palace to learn what is required of me.

      I am received in the presence chamber where Her Grace sits under her canopy of state, her face grave and aged. One would not recognise the gay young woman who sat in her box watching the knights joust in honour of her newborn son just a few weeks ago.

      I bow, removing my hat. “Your Grace.”

      She offers a brief nod. “We are pleased to ask you to ride in the Prince of Wales’s funeral procession as one of the six mourners.”

      I am shaken. “Thank you for bestowing such an honour upon me,” I say at last. It is awkward to be honoured by such a sad undertaking, but it is a practical task and the queen and I are of like mind in practicality, it seems.

      She averts her eyes a moment. “I have had two miscarriages,” she goes on, dropping the royal “we,” and I raise my head, startled as much by the familiarity as by the confession. Queen Catherine is never one to break with proprieties. “I thought that was suffering. But nothing compares to this. I have lost my first child, the first child to be successfully carried to term. He was so special, a gift I felt was hard earned and much anticipated not only for me but for the whole kingdom. A prince at last.” Her face adopts a dreamy expression. “There is something about one’s first child…. He will never be replaced. Even when we have another, this little Henry will always be considered my first.” Her voice catches on the last word. She turns grief-stricken eyes to me, her face arranged in an appeal. “How do you bear it, my good sir?”

      “Dear lady,” I say, at a loss. “I—words cannot express …” Searching her honest, open face, I am struck by the thought that she is hoping I have some divine answer that will explain her tragedy away. I draw in a wavering breath. “I can say much about grief, but in the end, to someone whose pain is still fresh, all of my words would sound commonplace, empty, and as pointless to you as all the well-intended sympathisers did to me when I lost my children. So the only thing I will tell you about managing grief is this: Press on.” I swallow hard. “Find comfort in what you may, Your Grace.” I bow my head, then add in soft tones, “I appreciate your grief more than is in your estimation. You could not have chosen a more appropriate person to fulfil the obligation of mourner than I.”

      The queen leans forward, resting a bejewelled hand on my shoulder. For a moment we are locked in each other’s gaze. Her eyes are wide with a mingling of fear and confusion. She bows her head, slowly removing her hand.

      “We thank you for your service, Sir Thomas,” she says, still avoiding my eyes. “You are dismissed.”

      I quit the chambers, unsettled and awkward and pitying another mother’s loss.

      … and Pirates

      I ride in the procession, sitting numb on my mount, keeping vigil over yet another dead child. The spectacle of a kingdom in mourning is too much to take in. I begin to tune it out: the sound of the church bells, the tears of the crowd, the queen’s anguished face.

      The little prince is interred, grief is set aside for state business, and we forge ahead. The king recovers in time to go a-Maying, ordering the festivities to commence as usual. There is feasting and masquing and tourneys, in which my brother and I take part. We oust our opponents in typical Howard style and the king claps my brother Neddy on the back, thrilled by the display. He is far more familiar with him than with me. I tell myself it is my age that prevents me from having a closer relationship with His Majesty, but in truth, Neddy isn’t much younger than me. Rather, Neddy possesses charm and flamboyancy, attracting everyone to him without effort. He enjoys people where, as a whole, I am bothered by them. He is open and cheerful and converses for enjoyment, whereas if something isn’t being gained by the conversation, I have little use for the art. What’s more, he is ever ready to partake in any festive situation, bringing his own merry element, which itself proves endearing, else why would the king retain the useless Charles Brandon? I am not of the same nature as Neddy and Brandon so have not commanded the king’s personal attentions as much.

      But what I cannot be as a courtier, I can make up for as a soldier. All the prowess demonstrated in the jousts and tourneys has proven worthwhile. We have impressed the king sufficiently so that he sees fit for Ned and me to take on Sir Andrew Barton, the pirate who has been terrorising our trade routes by capturing English ships under the pretext that they are in possession of Portuguese goods. Barton’s case is peculiar. His motives are based on an old family grudge: His father, John Barton, was captured by a Portuguese ship, and the King of Portugal never made amends. Thus the King of Scots permitted him to take any Portuguese ship that crossed his path, along with their goods. In truth I do not think he was permitted to take Portuguese goods off ships that weren’t from Portugal and this is certainly something that could have been smoothed over had Henry VIII only asked James IV. But my father is so eager to dissuade the king from supporting favoured councillor Thomas Wolsey’s encouragement of a French campaign that he urges His Majesty to engage Barton in the hopes of rousing a war with Scotland. Hence the Scottish king is not consulted.

      I am not about to make suggestions. If the king is prompted by my father, so be it. My father’s interests are my own; his gain is my gain. If the king asks me to take Barton, I take Barton.

      And so in August, I trade land for sea and, from the very first, know that I was born to it—the rolling waves, the salty spray, the eternal motion of the ship, all this coupled with the anticipation of impending battle.

      We encounter Barton’s ships, the Lion and the Jenny Pirwin, on the Downs, that narrow roadstead off the eastern coast of Kent where warships patrol the gateway to the North Sea.

      “Raise the willow wand!” I cry, indicating the symbol of merchant ships, so that we might lure him in. The Lion, which is being guided by a captain whose ship they looted the day before, comes about.

      I stand on deck, gripping the ledge. I am tingling; power surges through my arms straight to my fingertips. My knuckles are white. The wind whips against my cheeks. I lick my salty lips. We lurch into a wave; the spray splashes me and I laugh out loud. There is nothing like this, not the love of a woman nor the cry of a newborn guaranteed to be stolen away—no, this kind of satisfaction is not given by another human being; it is achieved from within and I savour every moment.

      The Lion is gaining. She is ready to take us. I stand firm, making certain that Barton sees the man who is fated to kill him.

      “Cut the flags!” I order.

      The flags are cut and we reveal ourselves to be the Enemy.

      “Fire a volley—hit her broadside!” I shout. I am trembling as I watch the other ship closing in. We hit her with the cannons; the damage is not extensive but enough to rock her off balance and send the crew scrambling.

      Barton is on deck, a formidable figure in his fine armour. About his neck is a golden whistle. He is shouting orders, indicating the strange apparatus his ship is outfitted with: weights suspended on large beams. They are peculiar and I imagine in the right circumstances quite effective. When someone climbs up the masts to release the lines on which the weights are connected, they can drop onto other ships. This is a machination I cannot help but admire, but only for a moment, as I realise Barton is hoping to utilise them against us.

      I look to my archer, a Yorkshire man called Hustler. “Kill any who try to go aloft,” I tell him.

      He offers a nervous nod, readying his bow. He aims. My body tenses, but there is even a thrill in the anxiety as I watch the arrow cut through the СКАЧАТЬ