The Queen’s Sorrow. Suzannah Dunn

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      Someone had made a mistake. That was what Rafael had heard. Someone senior on the Spanish side was supposed to have told the prince that his bride, the English queen, had provided for him; not financially (not a penny) but in terms of staff. A full household – hundreds of Englishmen – had been installed for him at court. The prince – ever-diplomatic – hadn’t presumed that any provision would be made, so, despite meticulous planning for a smooth and inconspicuous arrival in England, he’d come with his own three hundred men, a month ago, to a palace which had very little room for them.

      Various Londoners had been persuaded to take some in, it seemed. And now, Rafael and Antonio: belated arrivals, stragglers. Rafael didn’t mind the change of plan. This initial inconvenience, yes, of course, he did mind: waiting to be allocated a host when they’d already suffered five days at sea and then the protracted journey overland in pouring rain. But on the whole, no. It wasn’t going to cost – they’d still be fully provided for – and he’d rather lodge with a local family, he reasoned, than suffer the squeeze at court.

      Antonio, predictably, did mind. No doubt he’d bragged back home that he’d be living in royal splendour. While Rafael waited at the office that had been designated to deal with Spanish matters, Antonio prowled around the courtyard outside, heedless of the rain, in search of commiseration with like-minded company. Which meant company other than Rafael’s. How did he do it? – make Rafael feel as if he were his father. He did it all the time; he’d been doing it for the five years that they’d been working together: making Rafael feel middle-aged. In fact, Antonio himself was in his late twenties, by now; there were only twelve years between them.

      Rafael had hoped they might be dealt with separately, but then it was, ‘Rafael de Prado and your assistant Antonio Gomez.’

      ‘Assistant’: Antonio wouldn’t like that. He worked for Rafael on Rafael’s projects; he didn’t ‘assist’. Luckily, he hadn’t heard. The Spanish official conferred irritably with his English, Spanish-speaking, counterpart before pronouncing, ‘Kitson,’ and offering his notes to Rafael, tilting them, indicating the name with a fingertip. Rafael made as if to look, but didn’t; just concentrated on repeating, ‘Kitson.’ A relief: it wasn’t so hard to say. At least he’d be able to manage the name of his host.

      ‘A merchant,’ read the official.

      Out of interest, Rafael asked, ‘Merchant of what?’ but the official shrugged, making clear that he was done.

      Fair enough. Rafael stood aside to wait to be fetched. He leaned back against a wall, wishing he could also somehow shrink from himself. He needed to bathe. He longed to bathe. His skin was – well, it was there; it was a presence, where usually he’d be unaware of it, be at ease in it. Raised and tight, was the feeling. His dear hope was that there were no other ‘presences’, nothing having made its own little journey across from a fellow voyager. It was inevitable, though, he knew. Whenever he went to scratch, he’d stop himself, suffer the itch, will it away, try to think of something else. He could think of nothing but water, though: warm, fresh water. He’d had more than enough of sea water. His hair was wild with sea salt and his clothes stiff with it. But fresh, warm water, to lose himself in. Half an hour in it, that’s what he craved. The sea-journey had been bad enough, but now he ached from the wagon: there were jolts packed into his joints and he dreamed of soaking them loose.

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