The King’s Daughter. Christie Dickason

robes served my father. With my father’s permission, they had imagined these practices, and conjured them into life. They were trowies, crept out from cold dark unknowable depths of black opaque water. Destroying the young and brave…If this could happen to men like Digby, then who was safe…? And I was captive in their world, trying to swim in their cold black water, where everything lovely had drowned. Cecil. My father…

      I’d seen blood before!

      I shook my head to try to clear my sight. But the faces below me would not change back into men.

      The last prisoner died, after long repentance and many prayers for forgiveness. If my father wanted me to learn from this ‘clarifying sight’, I would. I watched now as if studying the actions of my enemy, in order to overcome him. Already older than my age, I now felt myself growing as ancient and cold as the waters of the loch.

      It did not then occur to me, the First Daughter, the young she-wolf, that it might be safer to be seen as pliable and easy to rule than to challenge. It was not in my nature to understand the safety that lies in weakness. I was enough my father’s daughter to understand his speed of thought, the urge to pounce-and-devour. I was still young enough to believe that you triumphed by proving yourself the stronger.

      In Coventry, I had stared at that padded jacket without grasping its true message. I had listened to Mrs Hay’s tales and learned courage from my father’s childhood but never seen the deeper truth. That the greatest threat grows, not from confident power, but from fear and uncertainty. My father was dangerous, not because he was a king, but because he had once been a frightened, vulnerable boy at the mercy of guardians and violent, unruly nobles. In my ignorance, looking down into Paul’s Churchyard, I determined to defy him.

       10

      I spoke to no one at Combe of what I had seen. Mrs Hay pretended that we had never left Combe. I would look at my lady guardian or at Anne as she chirped away about some small domestic adventure, and wonder if they saw no change in me, or if they merely feigned not to. Although Lord Harington must have known where I had been, he said nothing neither. The most that I could detect was the increased fuss Mrs Hay and the Haringtons now made about my health, asking unnecessarily often if I were chilled or overtired. Even Lord Harington’s habitual civilities, like, ‘How does your grace, this morning?’ seemed to carry weighty hidden meaning.

      ‘I am well,’ I would reply fiercely. I was the First Daughter. I had survived a kidnap attempt and learned that I could be a fool. I had not weakened at the terrible death of my forest spirit. I must believe that I had the strength to deal with whatever waited for me.

      A noble posture is all very well in the intent, and when you are standing face-to-face with a clearly seen terror. But the unknown catches at your feet and steals your breath. I no longer slept but lay all night fretting and fearful in the dark, imagining first this way, and then that way, how things might be, and how they might unroll.

      Henry did not write to say, however guardedly, that he had received my warning letter. Abel White did not return with Clapper, nor send word of how he had fared. After what I had seen in London, I now had little doubt that I had sent my old playmate to his death. A cold worm of guilty knowledge and fear lay coiled in my thoughts, a bump I could always feel even when the surface of my day seemed to be running smoothly.

      With gritty eyelids and the ache of sleeplessness thumping at my brow bones, I tried to bury myself in the gentle patterns of life at Combe, as if they were the last, precious warmth of my bed on a freezing winter morning. I startled Lady Harington by my sudden meek application to needlework, and my prompt appearances for Scripture reading and the endless cycle of meals and prayers five times a day. Though the king had forbidden me the diet of history, classics and philosophy prescribed for Henry, I was allowed languages and womanly arts. To the amazement of my tutors, I tried to forget myself in my lessons.

      Sometimes, I surprised even myself and managed to forget the worm of fear and guilt when French words brought my whole mouth alive, or Italian rolled off my tongue. When singing, playing my lute, and practising on my virginal, I forgot all else.

      Also, because a princess must dance when introduced at court, I had to learn. Against the grain of their own stern morality, the Haringtons hired a dancing master. Under his knowing eye, with Mrs Hay watching us all, I practised how to curtsey. I advanced and returned. I glided, stamped and dipped. And sometimes, swooping across the floor or reversing in a turn, I experienced an instant of free flight. How could I not feel pure joy when every muscle was alive, riding the pulse of a drum?

      Even better, Anne had to learn too, so that I could practise dancing with a partner. Inevitably, as she was short, dainty and neat, while I was tall, long-limbed and wild-haired, I most often ended up dancing the man’s part. When the dancing master at times insisted that Anne play the man so that I could practise my proper part, and she then tried to guide or to lift me, we would grow helpless with giggles.

      I rode every day but Sunday, always under guard, chiefly on Wainscot, a little mare who was the lovely pale silvery brown of Russian oak, my favourite horse among the score stabled for me at Combe, now that Clapper was gone. Every day, I imagined Henry riding beside me, smiling at me across the space between us on the crags above Edinburgh, while the heads and haunches of our dogs bobbed up and down above the long silver-tasselled grass.

      When Lady H was not watching, I helped the stable grooms with their combing and brushing and tried not to think about Clapper and Abel White. I never rode in the forest on the far side of the ford.

      To fill any gaps in those quiet days, into which thoughts might otherwise rush, I wrote letters. I spent hours practising my signature in different sizes and coloured inks, including gold, to discover which self I should send out into the world.

      Above a golden signature, I wrote in French to the Queen of France, whose son I might one day marry if my father had his way. With a chilly heart and in plain oak gall ink, I wrote formal, perfectly spelled and much re-copied letters of devotion to my father. In reply, I received stern admonitions drafted in a secretary’s neat, official hand.

      I wrote often to Henry, now at either Windsor or Richmond. He sent back loving letters to me, full of tilts, swords and horses. I read and re-read them, searching for secret meaning but still found no hint of my warning. My own letters to him grew harder to write. The brother in my mind was fading. I was wearing him out with overuse, rubbing him thin and ragged at the edges.

      One day, after feeling out of sorts and shouting at Anne, I discovered a pink stain on the back of my smock. A month later, the pink stain reappeared, a darker red this time, and my stomach ached dreadfully. I knew then that I must be dying. The worm of fear had gnawed away my vitals. The weight of guilty secrets had torn my innermost tissues. I was bleeding to death. My life would slowly seep away from that mysterious opening between my legs and no one but me would ever know why. I refused food for the rest of the day. It was best to get it over and done.

      That night, one of my chamberers provided rags and explained that I would not die but had begun my monthly bleeding, which would continue forever, until I grew old. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or oppressed by her information. For reasons I did not understand, this messy, uncomfortable inconvenience also meant that I must now have Anne as my bed-fellow every night.

      Though good-natured, Lady Anne Dudley was cursed by a sense of the obvious. ‘Look, there’s a butterfly,’ she would announce. Or she might observe, ‘It’s raining today.’ Or, ‘Aren’t those flowers red!’

      I knew that she liked elderberries and disliked rhubarb, liked meat pies, disliked sauces made with ground almonds or wild garlic. I knew that she avoided melons for fear that they would make her belch. I also knew that she snored gently, just like Belle.

      ‘I shall sew with red silk today,’ she would say. ‘No! The blue is far better for this flower…the centre of it, in any case. What do you think, my lady? Perhaps yellow for the petals? Or would blue be prettier for the petals and yellow for the centre, do you think?’