In Great Waters (29 page)

Mary looked at Edward, then at Anne, her face pale. Edward put it carefully, but there was no doubt what he meant. Not every woman was able to bear children. Not every woman survived childbirth. If Mary’s body wasn’t strong enough for the task, Anne would be needed. England might be pinning its hopes on Mary’s pretty face, but it could not afford to go without a spare.

Mary lowered her eyes, her mouth closed. It was a good effort, but Anne had felt eyes on her faulty face too often not to know humiliation when she saw it. She leaned towards Mary, reaching out her hand; things were changing too fast, but she could not see her sister’s face shutter like that without reaching out to her. Mary did not clasp the fingers Anne extended, but she didn’t pull away either. She sat still, her countenance controlled, as Anne squeezed her dainty, fragile hand.

“But this presents us with a difficulty,” Edward was saying. “If you were to marry into a foreign court, your choices would be greater. But to find a prince willing to leave his own court and live in England with little promise of the throne—that will be difficult. If we wish to find a good husband for you. And we do, Anne. I have sent ambassadors. But you must understand why you may have to be patient.”

As Edward explained, Mary’s fingers curled around Anne’s, and Anne felt humiliation burn cold in her own cheeks. More than humiliation: horror. She had not thought of it before, had not considered herself married; it had been her mother’s attention she wanted all her life, not a husband’s. But Edward was right. For any prince to come to England and live all his life as the husband of a spare: that was a poor marriage to offer any man. The kings of Europe had sons enough, but what father would throw away a precious son on such a bargain? Edward did not say it, but she knew what he meant. For any prince to be willing to come and strike such a bargain, there would have to be something wrong with him.

“We shall find you a good husband.” Edward’s tone was earnest; his head was bent from decades of hunching over staffs, but he leaned forward a little. His manner had always been too formal to reach out to them; he had never embraced and kissed like Erzebet, never clasped hands like Anne and Mary, but there was concern in his face. Anne gripped Mary’s fingers tighter, newly grateful. Since Erzebet had died, there had been few caresses.

“I understand your Majesty,” she said, her voice not quite steady. There was nothing to do but be brave. Would Edward marry her to a diseased prince? The idea was inconceivable, he was her grandfather and he was leaning forward as if he loved her—but he had married Erzebet to Philip. Philip’s idiocy was legendary throughout Europe, but he was not the only monster to come out of the house of Delamere. There was more than one king with a son he would be pleased to see carefully disposed of, married to a reasonably healthy girl, out of sight, ready to beget sons that might survive the inbreeding better than their father had. Philip could beget no one, but there were others who
could. Anne struggled desperately to believe that her grandfather would not sell her to such a man.

“You must find Anne a good husband.” Mary’s voice was sharper than usual. She sounded peremptory, royal, but under the abruptness was a note of hysteria.

“Our ambassadors will see to it,” Edward said. “We do not take this lightly.”

“I will—” Mary stopped. For a wild moment, Anne wondered if she had been going to say that she would not marry well unless Anne did. That would have been reckless, throwing the nation into hazard, hundreds of thousands of souls, to speak up for her sister; it would have been sinful. If that had been her thought, she would have had reason to bite it back. But Anne knew, even in that moment, that she would never ask Mary what she had been going to say, for fear of hearing that it might be something else.

There was nothing to be said. Time with her family was a rare thing, but Anne needed to be alone. If she could get into church and pray, if she could reach out to God, perhaps there would be some comfort. She had to get out of that room and pray, before she lost her courage.

“You shall be a happy wife, Mary,” Anne said. “I shall pray for us both.” With an effort, she levered herself out of her chair. Her intention was to go closer to Mary and give her a kiss, but as she spoke, Philip roused himself from his stupor.

“Wife?” he said. His voice echoed around the room; Philip could never moderate his volume, and it rang off the stone walls loud enough to make Anne’s ears buzz.

“Philip,” Edward said. The word was clipped, but Philip seemed not to notice.

“Your wife is in Heaven, my uncle,” Anne said, making her way for Mary and using a phrase she had heard Claybrook say to Philip many a time. The words were spoken numbly: it was hard to imagine Erzebet in a state of bliss. Since her bloody death, Anne had tried hard, but however many times she tried, she couldn’t remember seeing Erzebet smile.

“Wife,” Philip said. His great hand reached out and caught Anne as she reached past him, locking around her wrist and pulling her to him. His fingers, dank and sticky, fastened themselves around her ankle, reaching under her heavy skirt to grab it.

“Wife,” he said.

Anne gasped, struggling like a hooked fish, trying to get away, but Philip was impossibly strong. She could hear her grandfather making sharp commands, but Philip wasn’t listening. His grip was hard enough to bruise, and he was pulling her to and fro on his lap, rubbing her body against his; she could feel the tension as he dragged her back and forth, yanking her arms like a child shaking a frustrating toy.

Anne turned her head and bit, sinking her teeth into Philip’s hand. There was a roar of pain that sang in her ears, and he shoved her. Anne hit the floor so fast that she rolled over like a dropped bundle, skirt tangled around her legs and her side smarting from the crash against the stone flags. She looked up dizzily, tears closing her throat, unable to speak.

“Philip, you must not seize people like that,” Edward said. His voice was trying to sound sharp, but there was a quaver in it, an old man’s shudder. The skin on his face was fragile, like cobwebs that might tear at a touch. It suddenly struck Anne that her grandfather was dying.

A
NNE DID NOT KNOW
how she lived through the time that followed. Day followed day with nothing but a crushing sense of anticipation, a dread of something unknown. Every morning she woke tight-chested and breathless, the air of her room pressing down on her as if she had dived fathoms too deep. Day after day she presented a limpid face to the court and hid whenever she could, riding her horse by the river and staring into its brown depths, wishing to dive in, shake off her heavy gown and swim away into the sea where no one could find her. But the sea was no refuge. Edward could not accompany Anne and Mary; no deepsmen would follow a king so old and frail. Anne dreamed of joining the deepsmen, of growing long and muscular like them, strong enough to fight for herself, but her small body was no defence against anyone. The next blessing of the waters, Mary and Anne set off together into the deeps while a reduced court sat on the shores, none of the usual retinue but only Edward, Robert Claybrook, Archbishop Summerscales and a few other great men, watching silently as the girls stripped and submerged themselves in the grey surf, ready to swim out. Edward had spoken to them quietly on the way, advised them on how to speak—childish words asking for friendship, for care—and Mary was prepared to begin such a chant, but at the thought, Anne’s heart sank. The deepsmen would not long protect a country with only children at its helm. It was strength they respected, not appeals to their better nature. Anne pinched her
mouth tight and gripped Mary’s wrist as they set out, telling her quietly in the underwater language:
Be careful. Stay silent
. And Mary only nodded, twisting her wrist out of Anne’s grip and reaching to take her hand. To stay in sight of one another was in no way necessary, but Anne held her sister’s hand, grateful for the momentary comfort.

Out in the bay, the deepsmen seemed vast, long-bodied like horses and great-armed like blacksmiths. Mary began by chanting a greeting, but the voices boomed around them:
Are you alone?
Had they no support, or was it down to them, two young girls in the sea?

Mary’s hand tightened on Anne’s, and Anne steadied herself in the water. There was nothing for it but a bold face.

Click
, she said, naming the strongest of the deepsmen. It was guesswork, memory, terrible risk, but if she didn’t dare it now, they were lost.
Rattle
. The names were untranslatable, but she remembered them from happier times, like the names in a favourite story from childhood. Anne held herself up in the water and named each of them, identifying them. She named each of them in turn, then put on her boldest face.
My sister
, she said.
Me
.

There was a moment’s pause and then Click reached for her, a strong arm darting out to grasp her shoulder. Anne dived, swimming down, remembering the motions Erzebet had swum through, wrapping her legs around his waist then swimming away, brushing her body against his, a dance to and fro, offering and retreat. His skin was rough and cold in the water, but as she swam in and darted back, his grip did not connect with her, his crushing hands and black claws stayed out of her flesh.

Mary floated in the water wordless, watching as Anne swam in and out.
I am a princess
, Anne told herself in the solitude of her own mind, as she forced herself to continue, stroking his skin with placating hands.
They are not of my kind. This is nothing. I groom an animal for my country
. It was not impossible if she kept her teeth set and concentrated on the cold of the water against her skin, ignored what her hands were doing. It was not difficult. Compared with the grabbing hands and baffled lust of her uncle, it was not difficult. Anne swam
and caressed, offering all she could in the name of England, striving to keep the deepsmen content with the only thing she could give.

Edward did not ask on the shore how she had kept the deepsmen loyal, and Mary did not speak of it to her. The girls sat in their coach on the way home, dripping wet, one on each side. Anne saw tears in Mary’s eyes, but Mary cried too easily these days. The weight still sat on Anne’s chest, the dread of something terrible happening. The moments with the deepsmen in the sea had not lifted its pressure. Therefore, what had happened could not be terrible. Anne sat alone, salt water running down her cold skin, and lifted her head. She had to carry on living.

She did not speak of what happened in the sea when she made her next confession. It could not be a sin to keep England safe. She was not certain, but could not ask Samuel. She could not speak of it.

If she was wrong, if she had sinned, then she was committing a mortal sin by making an incomplete confession, by taking Communion when she was not in a state of grace. If she was wrong, then every breath she drew, she drew in sinfulness. But there was no other means she could think of to keep the deepsmen placated, which meant she would have to do it again next blessing of the waters, and the blessing after that, and the blessing after that, until she was old enough to fight. She could not afford to hear anyone tell her that she shouldn’t do it.

More and more, Anne prayed for solitude. She did not want to be lonely, but it was hard to think of an alternative.

A
NNE AVOIDED
P
HILIP
whenever she could, but there was no help for it: he seemed to like her. Pink Mary with her landsman’s prettiness was of little interest to him, but Anne realised, as the pressure built every day, that she had caught his eye. The blue of her face that sent most people’s eyes out of focus as they addressed her appealed to him like a shining toy. Anne could not don a veil, not as a princess of the court, but she could not keep the colour from her cheeks either. Whenever Philip was nearby, her heart began to race, her grip to weaken, and the phosphorescence lit up her face in a blazing, frightened blush that brought Philip leaning his massive trunk towards her, reaching out to pat her skin with sharp-nailed paws.