The King's Daughter (49 page)

She rode away in her carriage in tears.

Then I asked to say farewell to Baby Charles, the next king of England.

He agreed to receive me in his borrowed presence chamber.

I approached and curtsied to the small figure perched in an upholstered arm chair fringed with gold, with two spaniels curled at his feet. ‘Sir, I come to take my leave,’ I said. ‘As soon as the wind permits, we sail for Flushing.’

‘I wish you a safe voyage.’

We stared at each other a moment in silence. I wondered how much we both would have changed when I saw him next.

Suddenly, he leapt to his feet. ‘You’re leaving me, Bessie!’ he cried. He sounded surprised. ‘You can’t go!’ He wept and clung to me. ‘There’s no one left. What will I do now?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, ‘Very much what you have always done – exactly as you like.’ Instead, I kissed his head and said that he must come soon to see me in Heidelberg.

Then, still at Rochester, I said formal farewells to my father.

77

We lingered together for a moment, a little apart from the others, looking down from the stone-paved castle terrace at the ships on the Medway.

‘You’re rid of me at last,’ I said.

‘Nae, Bessie,’ he protested. ‘Your old dad’s heart is breaking.’

I waved away his protest. ‘I must know before I leave you…’ I did not know how to ask. ‘Henry. How much did you hate him?’

His head jerked back as if I had struck him. The diamond in his hat flashed across my eyes. His mouth opened. His tongue heaved behind his teeth like a landed fish. I saw him attempt indignation.

‘We may never see each other again,’ I said. ‘Tell me before I go. I must know.’

Then his eyes brimmed and overflowed. ‘Bessie,’ he whispered. ‘Are you turned so cruel?’

‘I am a little like you,’ I said.

‘I’m cruel?’

‘You know that you are.’

‘I should have died instead.’

‘Answer me.’

He groaned and clutched his jacket as I had seen him do so often before.

‘Stop that at once!’ I said. ‘It doesn’t impress me in the least. An honest answer is the price I ask you to pay for being rid of both of your dangerous cubs.’

To my surprise, he dropped his hands from his doublet. His eyes sharpened and looked directly into mine for the first time since our conversation began. ‘I hear your question, Bessie – the one you don’t quite dare to ask.’

I held his eye, waiting.

‘I never hated Henry,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what you want to know, is it not?’

I nodded.

‘At times, I wished that you and he could change places. You’d have made a better king.’

‘Never!’ I stared suspiciously, wondering what new game he was playing with me.

‘Oh, aye,’ said my father. ‘The people would have lost their taste for his Puritan fervour when he began to make them drop coins into all those official fine boxes.’

Of course, he had known about Henry’s boxes. He would have placed spies among Henry’s household. They might even have been Cecil’s spies.

‘You had reason to fear him,’ I said.

‘Very good reason. He would have undone my life work for peace on the continent.’ He shook his head. ‘But I did not want him dead.’ He stared down at the river. Then, hearing my silence, he turned to me again. ‘I’ll wager that you’ve feared me, Bessie, but I doubt that you ever planned to kill me.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

He studied me for a long time. ‘Aye. That I am.’

I let out my breath.

‘I think you understand the pitiful jumble of the human soul,’ he said. ‘You don’t think only in straight lines as your brother did.''Do you swear that you did not order Henry’s death?’

I expected another protest, Instead, my father seemed to dissolve before my eyes. ‘Ah, Bessie…’ His eyes overflowed. ‘Never ordered…’ His nose ran. He wiped it on his sleeve.

‘Ah, Bessie, I fear…’ He stopped again. ‘Who knows what men may do when they imagine they serve their king? I fear… Dear Lord, I fear that I might…’ He could not finish. ‘That someone may have believed…’

‘Whom do you suspect?’

‘… who might have served me too well?’ He looked out at the river. ‘I reject my suspicions. What if I can’t now do without the advice of a man I suspect of serving me too well? Can you tell me that? What is England to do? How do I reward too much service? Who is more dangerous – enemies or friends?’

‘Can’t any of your books tell you?’ I asked.

I’m safe, I thought for the first time since I had arrived at Whitehall. I believe that I am safe.

He waved away my attempted flippancy. ‘Can you prove anything against anyone, Bessie?’

I shook my head.

‘Best to say nothing then.’

78

From Canterbury, I wrote a fulsome letter to my father.

… I shall perhaps never see again the flower of princes, the King of fathers, the best and most amiable father that the sun will ever see…’

He would recognise the irony. It might even amuse him for a few moments. Then he would wave my letter about, a trophy. My last gift to him.

Let rumour mutter what it likes… His eyes would challenge. Look you! Here’s proof that I never wronged any of my cubs. See here, how she writes,
I long to return again and kiss your hands once more.
What more do any of y’want?…
most amiable
… You know she’s a lass who speaks her mind. Who dares to disagree now?

Though I had once feared that he would have me executed, I now believed that he valued me. I couldn’t say ‘loved’ because he himself told me that he could not feel love.

As for Henry, my father would never have thrown away such a precious jewel if he could not have fished it out of the mud afterwards. I was quite certain. I would not riskthe fragile balance that he and I had found by believing anything else.

Five days later, we moved from Canterbury to Margate, to set sail at last. Lord and Lady Harington (still carrying all her certainties) rowed out with us across the choppy water. A fleet of other boats followed us, carrying the rest of my attendants and luggage. Because of the cramped space on board, none of the women wore a farthingale. I would not wear one again until we reached Flushing and rigged ourselves to greet my one-time suitor, Prince Maurits of Nassau.

I won’t miss it, I thought.

I missed Tallie, most likely now arrived. I didn’t know if she loved me, but it was no matter. We were each of us a solid place for the other to place her feet. Even if she sometimes felt as out of reach to me as the sky, I wanted her there in the boat with me, to share this happiness with me. I wanted someone to hear my tumbling words about Frederick, whose shoulder pressed against mine in the brief intimacy of our journey out from shore. I wanted her to make my words real by hearing them. I wanted her to tell me when I was being a fool. I wanted a witness.

Old Nottingham, the ancient Lord Admiral, had received us on board. Frederick and I stood at the railing of the giant ship with the wind whipping at our hair, and looked down at our attendant fleet. There were shouts and whistles and a great deal of purposeful activity. We stayed out of the way. For the moment, a pair of royal highnesses counted for less than stirring the pulse of this great-bellied beast with a golden image of my brother on the bow, mounted on his horse, pointing the way forward with his sword.

The beast inhaled. Then let out its breath and settled back into itself. The wind had shifted easterly. Foul weather threatened. We returned to shore.

I felt sick.

Three nights in Margate. Three nights of listening for hoof beats. Of fearing another turn in my father’s humour. Then back on board and at the rail again.

I thought of Henry and his not-quite confession about Frances Howard. His uneasiness… poor Henry! He never knew this joy!

I would have liked to tell him how happy I am, I thought.

At least, his ship supports me, holds me up, carries me across the water.

I looked back at England and saw white. If I had been a gull, I would have loved the place so much sooner.

I had escaped the demons. I had no doubt that others lurked, my very own, but I could not see any of them now. Just then, I pitied my father because he wasn’t me. I pitied my mother, and Henry, because they never had what I had now, that moment. It was better than the moment of unlacing. Of feeling the air move freely against my bare skin.

My bare skin. A universe I never imagined.

I looked at my Frederick. My husband. My lover. My unexpected friend and ally. My gift from God.

I gave myself permission not to see the shadow in his eyes. It belonged to our future, which I would deal with when it arrived. As I would deal with all the other things I did not yet know. I knew now how much I could do. No matter what might happen, I would have known this time.

I am loved, I thought. I am his star. I make a universe for him as he does for me.

This was a perfect time. I would eat it, drink it, inhale it, roll in it like a hound in sun-lit spring grass. My wolf stretched on warm rocks. I was a child again, filled with the space below the Crags, cousin to the birds wheeling below me. I flew.

A sail shivered and thumped above our heads. A coil of hanging rope knocked gently against a mast.

We flew.

Frederick turned curiously when he felt me fumbling inside my cloak.

I kissed the granite fragment from the Scottish crags. Then I threw it high into the air. As it arched through the air, my stomach dropped in terror. Tears sprang to my eyes. I wanted to call it back. My eyes lost it against the waves, then saw the tiny splash where it entered the water. I could not look at Frederick for fear that I would see the same terror in his eyes that was washing through me.

Then I heard his clothing rustle. His warm hand found my clenched fist among the damp folds of my cloak. Still not looking at him, I clamped my fingers between his and held on. As we watched the strip of grey heaving water between us and England grow wider and wider, I leaned against his shoulder for balance and was slowly filled again with that odd, new contradictory sense of alert peacefulness that he had brought to my body and heart. I looked back at where I imagined my granite fragment had entered the water.

It was done. It was right. I was headed for my very own mountains. My husband’s mountains.
Die berge.
The mountains.
Das volk.
The people. My people, who will love me as he does, Frederick said.

My husband.
Mein mann.

In a few more days, I would be certain that I was not going to bleed this month. If my suspicions were right, I already carried in my belly a living testament to my new life. I would not tell Frederick yet, not until I was certain.

I imagined telling him. I imagined burying my face in my child’s belly. I could relish again and again the perfect joy of imagining those future moments.

I glanced at Frederick’s serious profile and the dark hair being whipped into his eyes by the wind. I smiled at the thought of his most recent wedding gift to me, now cowering in her wicker cage amid the strange creaks and smells of our cabin, beside my lute case. When my new husband last visited Charlesat Whitehall, she had climbed eagerly onto his lap. Frederick had looked my brother in the eye, tucked Belle inside his coat and walked out, taking her with him. Belle, who had once been so jealous of him. She might again be jealous of the babe, at first, but again would soon learn to love.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

JOHN, my husband and personal Google. Theatre producer and consultant, who knows more than seems possible for any one person (and remembers everything he reads). Who, yet again, tracked down much that I needed to know.

Again and as always to my friend, the award-winning radio and television writer, STEPHEN WYATT, for his generous offerings of sudden thoughts, ‘what-ifs', and articles ‘you should read’ – and for his patient, constructive listening during all those working park walks.

DAVID DIBOSA, for his gift of insight and inspiration in helping me to see and feel the reality of Tallie.

CHUK IWUJI, a charismatic actor who has inhabited the 17th century as the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Henry VI, and helped me to make the imaginative time leap.

GARRICK HUSCARED (aka ‘King James') friend and colleague, the gifted artist, writer, actor-manager and filmmaker, for those conversations about black pirates and otherunexpected Englishmen that lit the slow fuse of Tallie. And for making history so much FUN.

JANEY HUSCARED, friend and fellow-writer, for introductions, bodices to wear and inspirational good talk, among much, much more.

LINDSAY SMITH, passionate historian and side-saddle expert, for advice, information and farthingales.

RICK EVANS, (aka ‘Captain Stanton’ and Hampton Court’s HENRY VIII). I owe his ‘trans-temporal’ sensibilities far more than I suspect he knows.

SUSAN SOLT, long-time friend, for our stimulating discussions about women of African descent in Early Modern England.

My son, TOM FRENCH, for designing and building my website.

EMMA FAULKNER, my sharp-eyed literary PA and conscience.

JEREMY PRESTON, of East Sheen Library for research and support.

LYNNE DREW, Publishing Director at HarperCollins, for launching my little ship of state and for keeping a steady hand on the tiller.

SUSAN OPIE, my editor, and JOY CHAMBERLAIN for accompanying Elizabeth and me on the journey. (Every writer should have such editors – inspirers, whip-crackers, friends.)

NB In my last novel,
The Principessa,
I smuggled the names of Susan Opie and Joy Chamberlain into the text, as a literary game. This time, it’s Lynne Drew’s turn…

ROBERT KIRBY, of United Agents.

ORLY (Café Strudel) and LEO GIANNINI (Café Al Fresco) for giving me working places away from home.

About the Author

CHRISTIE DICKASON
started writing at the age of three, before she could spell. She went on to study English at Harvard, then won an MFA in Directing at Yale Drama School. After spending fourteen years as a theater director and choreographer, with the Royal Shakespeare Company and at Ronnie Scott’s, among others, she returned to her secret passion for writing while convalescing from illness. In addition to her novels, she also writes poetry, music lyrics, and for the theater. As a child, she lived in Thailand, Mexico, and Switzerland, and has now lived longer in London than anywhere else. For more information and to contact her, please visit her website, www.christiedickason.com.