In Great Waters (12 page)

After a moment, Anne heard Mary’s voice repeat the call. There were other sounds, noises she recognised as welcome. As the deepsmen circled them—glorious, she saw now, great magnificent beings white as milk and mighty as horses, and circling
her
—Anne smiled
into the brine. Mary might know more about the land, but Anne had spoken first, and she had spoken well, and Mary had learned and followed. It was a moment of pure victory.

A year later, it was in the water that Erzebet told Anne of the death of William. The tale was quickly told: there had been a war. Anne had been aware of a great army going out, the rattle of weapons and pounding of hooves, and her father had been among them, but the reasons for it had been unclear to her. As Erzebet explained it now, it seemed as if the war had mostly gone well. There were no more kings in Scotland. Like Wales, it was now under the rule of one family: their own. Edward ruled the whole island.

Erzebet did not sound happy. Anne had tried to understand why, if the war troubled her, it had happened at all. All Erzebet could say to make it clear was, “It is not good to have borders on land.” Countries divided by seas maintained a reasonable peace. The deepsmen guarded their shores, and few nations ever risked their sailors against a fleet of patriots who could swim up from beneath and smash hulls, pull off rudders, drag men down to a thrashing death. But nothing guarded borders on land except landsmen. Soldiers who feared a dark end in the deep water were not afraid to fight each other. Landlocked countries sparred with their neighbours like cats in a sack, but countries protected by deepsmen on their shores were safe from countries overseas, more or less. This was why the princes were so vital, Erzebet explained. They treated with the deepsmen, and if the deepsmen did not protect the country, it was an unguarded feast, ready for any flock of ships to swoop upon. Deepsmen must be loyal, or nations would be as unstable as if they were landlocked.

Now the island was one nation, ruled by one king. It should have meant peace within her borders. But William was dead, and Erzebet floated in the water, dry-eyed and hoarse-voiced, cuddling her little daughter to her. There was a note in her voice that Anne had not heard before. Erzebet had never sounded less than sure. It troubled
Anne for a moment, but Erzebet’s hands stroked her hair gently, and in that moment, the joy of her mother’s attention was strong enough to make her push doubts out of her mind.

Anne’s father had been a vague presence in her life, a figure to whom she had to make obeisance on formal occasions when she was tucked into heavy, jewelled dresses and presented before the court, a fast-swimming figure on trips through the sea; though he was small compared with the sea people, he was so much bigger than Erzebet—than her—that in Anne’s mind he was classed more or less as a deepsman. She had paid formal respects to him, anointing his hands with salt water and murmuring the deepsmen’s chant of submission before moving on to her grandfather to perform the same task for him, but she could remember few conversations with her father; having confused him so much with the deepsmen, she would have been hard put to describe his face. Erzebet lay on her back, cold waves lapping around them, with Anne’s small form curled on her chest, breathing in the fresh, rain-tasting air. Though Anne could hear the strain in her mother’s voice, even years later, when she was a woman and old enough to understand, still the strongest memory of her father’s death was the peace of the waves kissing her sides, the comfort of her mother’s strong arms around her, carrying her face-up under the sky.

So on the day when the marriage was announced between Erzebet, widow of William, heir to Edward’s throne, and Philip, the new crown prince, last remaining son of gaunt, shrewd Edward, Anne’s feelings were hurt that Erzebet had not taken her for a swim to give her this news. The disappointment was so strong that her eyes stung with tears. A little, cool hand reached out and clasped around hers, and to her surprise, she realised that it was Mary’s, her sister reaching teary-eyed and giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze. Erzebet stood, hunched over her canes, facing the court from her dais. There was a stiffness around her eyes and mouth that Anne had never seen before. For a moment, Anne stood before the court, tears in her eyes, perceiving her sister’s clasping hand and her mother’s set face. Longing
gripped her, a deep longing that they could all shed their clothes and jewels and slip into the water together, swim out to sea. She knew it would make her feel better. But whether it would console Mary and Erzebet from their strange, unspoken grief, she was too young to know.

T
HE DAY OF
the wedding, Anne was packed into the heaviest dress she had ever owned, caked with sharp jewels like a barnacled hull; her hair was arranged in neat locks and trimmed at the ends; new, fine sticks were placed in her hands, and her maid dabbed at her faintly blue cheeks with cosmetics that thickened uncomfortably on her skin and did little to dim the glow. Warnings were given about staying quiet and behaving herself during the ceremony, but these were perfunctory; from those she trusted, Anne received any expression of love with desperate, submissive gratitude, but in the presence of crowds, she seldom spoke at all.

The cathedral was filled with courtiers, hot with the warmth of bodies and candles even though its vaulted ceiling rose high and cool and the doors stood open to let in the light of the sun. Anne sat in her pew, arranged next to her sister, who wore a dress glittering with pearls and gems as stiff and massive as Anne’s own. Mary, who was usually decorous in public, slipped a cold, dry hand into Anne’s own and held on. Anne did not understand, but the caress was too consoling to puzzle over; she sat quietly like a good girl, letting her hand be held.

Court musicians played a mighty song of celebration as Philip was brought up to the altar. The music was traditional, hautbois and flutes bending themselves to notes sung by deepsmen out at sea—or at least, to the lower-pitched notes of a deepsman’s range; the higher tones
were beyond a landsman’s ears or a flautist’s compass. The accent was crude, and the notes ornamented almost out of recognition, but Anne could make the message out clearly enough: it spoke of happiness, of kingship, of good things, and of marriage. Philip sat in his litter, carried as he was from place to place. Unable to mount a horse, unable to do more than hoist himself upright with the royal canes, still chair-bound and stuck, Philip reclined his life away, carried to and fro by bearers. Attending him at all times were the Lord Privy Sponges, a post revived in such cases as his, silver buckets of brine over their arms, moistening Philip’s ever-drying skin in a regular, soothing stroke. The litter lurched forward, the Sponges watching their footing, under the direction of Robert Claybrook, the Earl of Thames. The man was Philip’s—
adviser
, was the word Anne had been taught to say. Claybrook was a sturdy, alert man of pleasant manners. His friendship was much sought by those at court. Though his lands were not as extensive as some, they commanded most of the crucial, capital river, and a man who owned waterways outranked any landlocked lord in the country. His friendship was easily given as far as Anne could see. He even smiled at her and her sister as he guided the litter before the congregation.

The smile heartened Anne briefly; no one else was smiling. But when her mother appeared, bent over her polished staffs, making her slow way unaided up to the altar, Anne’s heart clenched. Erzebet was not a smiling woman, nor a high-coloured one, but Anne was accustomed to an anxious study of her mother’s moods and expressions for any signs of warmth. In Erzebet’s pallor and stillness now, Anne read an unhappiness she had never seen before.

The Archbishop of Stour was at the altar, holding aloft a pearled chalice. John Summerscales, his name was, a small, white-haired man with shrunken limbs and bright eyes, quick on his feet for one so elderly. Anne was used to paying him silent deference, but the man standing beside him was new to her. Narrow of face, dark-haired and thin, he was a puzzlement to her, for while he wore the robes of a bishop, he was a young man for such rank, forty at the oldest and possibly younger. It was hard to tell, for he had the haggard face of an
ascetic. At first Anne supposed he must be one of the severe priests who fasted and did penance with fierce passion for their faith, but then she saw what was strange about him, what had drawn her eye and kept her attention well enough to offer a moment away from worrying about her mother. His left leg dragged behind him, lame and useless, giving him a halting, lopsided gait like no one else at court.

Staffs were forbidden to courtiers, the province of royalty alone. If a man could not stand on his two good feet, he could never stand before the king. Even lame farmers laid down their crutches when the crown paraded by. But this man, staffless and hobbled, walked up to the altar to attend on the Archbishop, his leg scraping the ground behind him, no stick to help him, forcing himself forward on his one sound limb.

The aisle of the Cathedral glistened with water where the Sponges had dripped. As the chant of Mass began, Erzebet stood before the congregation, her face frozen over like a winter lake.

Philip sat staring in his chair, whimpering if the Sponges were slow in their work. As the Archbishop turned to him for a response in the ceremony, he blinked, unresponding.

Claybrook turned and whispered something to him.

Philip blinked, and Claybrook whispered again.

“Yes,” Philip said, a deep bass croak. It was not the formal answer required, but it was an answer; the Archbishop evidently decided that it would suffice.

So it was that Anne’s mother married her uncle, while Mary and Anne sat hand in hand, Anne trying over and over to catch her mother’s unresponding eye. Finally, the Archbishop stood up, straightening his back from bending down to keep a careful ear attuned to Philip’s mutterings, and declared to the world that here stood man and wife.

At this, Philip looked up. “Wife?” he said.

Claybrook looked at Erzebet, waiting for her response.

Still-faced, Erzebet tottered over to Philip, her hands white on the heads of her canes. “Yes,” she said, Magyar accent thicker than usual, but clear before the court. “I am your wife, my lord.”

Philip stared for a moment more. “Wife,” he said, then added something in the deepsman language, something Anne recognised from the tune the musicians played, about love.

Erzebet did not move.

Philip reached out a massive hand. His webbed fingers made an awkward grab, catching at the neckline of Erzebet’s jewelled gown, then reaching down and digging into the rich silk overlaying her breast. Anne heard her mother’s teeth snap shut, and then Claybrook stepped forward, spoke a quick word to the bearers. A shuffle, a grunt of effort, and the litter was hoisted on their shoulders, carried swiftly down the wet aisle, musicians striking up a loud refrain that failed to cover Philip’s protests, his voice tolling out, “Wife! Wife! Mine!” as they carried him out of the church.

King Edward rose and stepped before the congregation, raising his hand in a gesture of blessing. At the sight of his gaunt frame, Anne sat straighter than before: Edward had always treated her with an austere kindness, and Philip’s grab had frightened her to tears. But Edward looked at no one: not at Anne, not at Mary, not at the Archbishop or the bride or the court. He stared straight ahead of him, at nothing.

The congregation made their way outside, ready to hunt and feast to celebrate the marriage. Anne turned to Mary, still by her side, as small and ignored as she. “Will our mother be all right?” she said.

Mary leaned over and gave Anne a kiss on the cheek, and then a maid came and took her away, and Anne was left alone.

No children were to come of the match. Anne never became used to her mother’s behaviour after she was married; it was too erratic to understand. The moments when Erzebet would stoop and kiss her, stroking her face and crooning under her breath, rocking her on her jewelled lap, eyes closed, for hours at a time, were spoiled by the knowledge that the next day it was likely Erzebet would stand in court, face forward, looking at no one and with no time or glances to spend on her yearning little daughter. Erzebet was steady and proud
as she spoke to ambassadors, greeting them gracefully and holding her ground in disputes, growing stronger and surer under Edward’s watchful eye as the months passed, until the king and his daughter-in-law were holding court equally. But in private, Erzebet answered no questions and her kisses came like rainfall, soothing to Anne’s parched skin but unpredictable, and as utterly beyond Anne’s command as the grey clouds.