The Innocent (41 page)

He resisted the urge to bow to the still figure who sat on the settle before him. Strange how a normal person could change into something else—a symbol, perhaps—in an instant. Then it hit him like cold water on a hot day. With this knowledge, he, too, and his family, were in grave danger. He had said he would help her, and he would. The question was, how? And what would it bring him when he did: death or great influence?

Outside, the shouts of men could be heard and a moment later the captain of his guard knocked respectfully at the door of the little room. “The horses have arrived, and if Sir Mathew is quite ready…”

Sir Mathew was, but first he strode to Anne and, gently picking up one of her little, work-roughened hands, he said, “Your servant, lady.” He meant it. “I shall send word with someone you can trust. As soon as I am able…”

Anne heard the noise and bustle of the small party leaving, but the sounds came from far, far away. It was not cold in the little room, but she shivered as she looked into the heart of the glowing coals in the fireplace.

Something moved and for a moment it seemed she saw…what? The sea, black and cold, under stars; heard it wash and move on the pebbles of the shore; saw the great ship at anchor, rocking; waiting…for her. Her head swam and she closed her eyes, trying to think, trying not to smell the salt on the wind that suddenly buffeted through the little room. Windsor was inland, nowhere near the sea…

The fire spat and a log broke apart, its glowing, pulsing heart exposed. Suddenly energized, Anne jumped to her feet. She had no money and nothing but a handful of friends to support her, yet she’d been given a sign, a portent that felt oddly hopeful. The vision of the sea felt right, felt true; perhaps it meant that the great wheel had, indeed, begun to turn. And if it had, there was nothing she could do but hold fast, and try to ride the rim.

Deborah and Jehanne had found a quiet spot in the gallery above Saint George’s Hall, looking down onto the revelers beneath them. To please the king, the queen had arranged for the townsfolk of Windsor to prepare a surprise. Tonight they would perform the story of Christ’s birth, but instead of the play taking place in the courtyard of an inn, or outside one of the churches of the town, as was usual, the villagers had been invited into the castle because the weather was so harsh.

Deborah looked down on the intent faces of the people below as they scrambled to get themselves ready for the performance. She smiled affectionately; these were people she understood, good people, making the most of a rare day when they did not have to work through the short daylight hours. From above, it looked chaotic, and the village mayor was doing his best to cut through the din in a vain effort to instill some organization.

“Now then, I want all the angels on my right hand, along with you shepherds. I said—Watkin Ireman, that means you as well. Yes! All right now. Magi? Where have you taken yourselves to? That’s it, over there, beside Mary. Come along now, for pity’s sake, or we’ll never be ready in time…”

Jehanne laughed gently with her friend. “If only life were as simple as putting on this little play. Just a question of persuading people to find their places and stick to them.” Deborah nodded. Both of them were thinking of Anne, Anne who’d been missing for some hours now, though they both knew she’d gone to find Mathew Cuttifer.

“I’m sorry I’ve been kept so long. You must have been wondering where I was.”

It was Anne, flushed from running after talking to Mathew. But before Jehanne could voice her concern, she was interrupted by a huge howl from below. The Devil had appeared in the midst of the townsfolk.

On this occasion the Devil was dressed all in black but was having some trouble managing his large canvas wings and long scaly tail as the crowd thronged close to inspect the details of his costume. The poor mayor looked close to a stroke as he did his best to reassert control. “Don’t touch the wings, they’ll break. Perkin! Perkin! I’ll not tell you again, there’s nothing under his tail, nothing! Drop it, drop it now!”

All three women in the gallery laughed—they couldn’t help themselves—as the abashed Perkin dropped the Devil’s tail, though not before the long-suffering Lord of Hell thumped him wrathfully with his pitchfork. But then the babble was cut through by a knife of sound—trumpets. The king was coming.

Noisily, the throng hushed and shushed itself into an approximation of silence, as the courtiers, led by Edward and Elizabeth, entered the hall and processed through the bowing villagers to a dais where twin thrones had been set.

At a signal from William Hastings, the mayor stepped forward and cleared his throat bravely. “Your Majesties, we, your loyal and fortunate subjects, wish to present the story of our Savior’s birth, enacted for your pleasure—and always by the will of God—by those of us who dwell in Windsor.” The mayor uttered his short speech gracefully and bowed with all the aplomb of a courtier when he had finished. A small ripple of good-natured approval ran around the hall, it was Christmas after all. Anne, looking down, felt bitter for a moment. The court was benign on a day such as this when the season made them kind. Another day and this man would have been seen as exceeding his station, but the king was arbiter of all and today he chose to be delighted.

“Greetings to you and yours, Master Mayor. The queen and I thank you most heartily for your kind attention to our pleasure, and the pleasure of all at court. Play on.”

Like a puff of smoke evaporating, the space immediately in front of the dais cleared of villagers, and after a moment the plaintive notes of a flute wound their way through the thick air of the hall. As one, the members of the court turned their heads to see a fine-looking young man, dressed all in green, enter the hall playing this melody on a simple pipe made from an ox legbone.

He made his way gravely to the empty space and then he, in turn, bowed low and introduced himself:

“I am Robin, Green Robin, and I have come to tell you of the birth of a king, long, long ago and in a land far, far away.” The crowd sighed unconsciously and settled in happily, attention hanging on this good-looking boy. They all liked a story, even if they’d heard it before.

As the Nativity play progressed, Anne quietly relayed her conversation with Mathew Cuttifer, and when she had finished Jehanne was insistent. “Of course we’ve got to find the letter, but I think you need somewhere to hide while we look.”

“Hide?” Something cold touched Anne’s heart; Jehanne was serious.

“Mathew Cuttifer, you must go to him. I cannot see another way.”

“But Jehanne, he may not accept Anne into his house when he’s had time to think on it.” Deborah’s worried face mirrored Anne’s secret fears.

The girl’s concern grew. “Wouldn’t I be putting them in danger? Sir Mathew’s family, I mean?

Shouldn’t we wait? He said he’d send word…”

“Too late for that.” It was Jehanne at her most practical. “We must send you away, today if we can. To London. You must get away from the king, it’s too dangerous for you to stay here any longer.”

Jehanne shivered as she remembered a passing exchange between Elizabeth and Edward after Mass.

Anne’s absence from the service had been noted and though Jehanne had covered for her, pleading ague on the girl’s behalf, the queen had turned to the king and laughingly asked if he had any hand in the girl’s continuing sickness. She’d made it a game, of course, and the king had laughed it off. But Jehanne knew Elizabeth well. She was letting the king know that she’d marked his attentions to her body servant. Marked—and had had enough.

So now it had come, the thing Anne feared most. Fate had stepped in, the path was in front of her, and in her heart she knew it was right, knew that she had to go. However, the pain of the thought that she might not see the king again—or if they met, that he might think of her as an enemy—was nearly too much to bear.

Unconsciously she prayed, first to Mary and then to Aine, asking help from each of them. Nothing came to her except that, distantly, she could hear a child crying, but then the sound of the Christmas music echoed in her mind; a song of redemption and hope; a song of rebirth in the midst of despair…

“If that is what you think best, I am ready.” Her voice was forlorn but calm. When she raised her head and looked at them, there was a profound change. Anne’s face was pared back, drawn in such a way that the bone structure was clear; no trace of baby fat remained. She stood quietly but held herself with touching dignity.

Jehanne felt an absurd urge to curtsy, which she dismissed impatiently with a quick shake of her head.

Time enough for that later. Now they had to get Anne out of the court without exciting comment—but how would they do that?

“Jehanne, Doctor Moss will help me to leave the court.”

Jehanne balked at the thought. “Child, he’ll only help us if it suits his own interest. We can’t trust him.

And I don’t see why he’d risk the queen’s—or the king’s—displeasure in this.”

Anne was implacable. The roles between she and Jehanne had almost reversed.

“Nonetheless, please ask him in my name. Say I will be most grateful…in times to come.” It was said with a certainty that made Deborah’s scalp prickle, something she only experienced when scrying the future. There were no visions now but she heard the truth in Anne’s voice. As did Jehanne, who shrugged reluctantly, then hurried away to do Anne’s bidding, leaving the others to watch the last of the play.

Anne herself said nothing more because her head was filled with the sound of the sea and on her tongue there was the taste of salt. Or tears.

Chapter Twenty-nine

His tone was as cold as the day outside: “Impossible. You know that—quite impossible.” Doctor Moss was in his room, busily preparing a strengthening tonic for the queen, and he’d been quite pleased with his progress until Jehanne found him and interrupted the tricky process of distillation. He shook his head decisively. Her request was absurd, and, for his own very good reasons, he was heartily disinclined to help. Ask the queen for leave of absence for Anne to quit the court? At Christmas?

Today?

“But sir, all you need say is that her mother is very ill, like to die, and needs the girl.”

The doctor was dismissive. “But why should I say such a thing? And even if I did, why should the queen grant such leave?”

“She may not. But if you try you would be helping Anne very much.” The expression on the doctor’s face did not alter. Jehanne sighed. This would be even harder than she’d thought. “And you would have my gratitude. And hers. Which may count for something in times to come.” It was said reluctantly, but it was said. The doctor looked up quizzically as Jehanne pressed on. “Doctor Moss, you have seen the king. He looks at Anne too much, far too much. She doesn’t know what to do about his attentions, and I believe he’s turned her head and…well, you and I both know, the consequences for her could be most dreadful if she becomes his concu-bine. I should like to save her such misery if I could—and I think you have a fondness for her.”

The doctor glowered. It was not for this wizened old woman to speculate about his feelings for Anne.

He turned back to his work and carefully measured four drops of a deep pink tincture into a pot that was boiling on his fire and from which came a truly foul smell. Miraculously, as he added the ruby-colored liquid, the contents of the pot foamed up and the stench cleared, replaced by the scent of roses.

Jehanne looked at him with amazement.

Moss was flattered by her astonishment and allowed himself to unbend slightly.

“Yes, remarkable, isn’t it? Taught to me by an Arabian, a doctor I met in Ravenna. Most efficacious, this—blood of a pregnant rabbit, purified dung from a lactating donkey, ground seed and juice of the Turkish poppy, and pennyroyal plus milkthistle—and this, the oil of triple-distilled essence of desert rose. Very rare, very expensive. An excellent tonic for the queen while she’s breeding, and it may make her cheerful as well.”

He took the pot from the fire and set it on the sill of a casement window that he opened, oblivious of the freezing air that swept into the room. The old woman shivered, wrapping her sideless surcoat tighter around her ribs.

“Doctor Moss, will you help Anne, if she cannot help herself?”

“I will think about it. I’ll let you know later. Perhaps after supper…”

Gratefully, the old woman swept down into a curtsy, which surprised the doctor considerably.

“I didn’t say I would, I said I’d think about it.”

But Jehanne was gone from the room before he finished his words. Thoughtfully, as he stirred the simple to help it cool, he allowed his mind to wander over a way that the queen might be brought to see Anne’s absence as a good thing.

Anne was taking a bundle of bed linen from the dorter down to the laundresses when something made her stop outside the stout door that led into the castle’s stone-flagged laundry. She heard someone laugh, a man, and then she heard Mary say, “Don’t, sir—oh, you’ll tear it.”

“I’ll get you another,” the man replied. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of cloth being torn and she heard Mary cry out, the cry instantly muffled. Then there were sounds like sobbing. Frightened and worried for her friend, heart in her mouth, Anne saw that the door was very slightly open and so she pushed it inward just a little more and then, in a rush, saw the cause of the sounds she’d heard.

Mary was sitting on the edge of the stone laundry bench with her skirts pulled high, exposing her naked thighs, and the man stood between them. Her breasts were naked, too, for the front of her dress had been ripped down to free them. Her eyes were closed and she was panting and moaning as the man, fully clothed, fondled and sucked at each breast in turn, fumbling with one hand to undo the points on his hose.

The couple were in profile to Anne’s gaze and she watched in stunned amazement as the man suddenly slid himself, fully erect, between the thighs of the writhing girl, pulling her to him, belly to belly, as she locked her heels behind his back. As he threw his head back, Anne saw it was William Hastings. She wanted to close the door and turn away but the man and the woman held her gaze as he, impatient, pushed Mary down on to her back on the laundry bench and she helped guide him back between her opened thighs with both hands, eyes half closing in pleasure as she felt him slide inside her again.