A Love Most Dangerous (31 page)

'Whether he can or he can't is immaterial,' he said.
'What's material is that he has. You're to be shipped out immediately, without
time for drink or sup.'

'But what about my things?' I said, turning towards my
chamber.

'Confiscated,' he said. 'You're allowed one suit of
clothes and a travelling cloak.' He looked embarrassed as he said it.

'And the little purse,' said the younger man.

'Oh yes,' the older guard said, 'and the little purse.'
He pushed a purse into my hand.

I opened it. The only things in it were the twig of a
rose, a twig of many thorns and a bodkin.

'From Richard Rich?' I asked.

'Afraid so, miss. He's a charmer, right enough.'

He glanced swiftly up and down the corridor and then
leaned closer towards me. 'Get yourself a little bag,' he whispered. 'Put your
special things in there and hide it under your cloak. No one will know. We'll
keep it our little secret.'

This unexpected little kindness hit me harder than the
news that I was being banished from my home. I began to weep. The two guards
looked around with worried and embarrassed looks.

'Have a care, miss,' the older guard said. 'It don't
do no good to be crying. That will only attract attention. Be a brave girl,
now, get your special things together and we'll help you leave as quiet as a
mouse.'

I wiped my nose and nodded.

'You're very kind,' I said.

'This isn't kind,' he said. 'This is cruel, dreadful
cruel.'

CHAPTER THIRTY

London

26th April 1538

I sat in a small and leaky boat with an elderly man
working the oars. He wheezed like a bellows every time he pulled and spat a
thick wad of phlegm into the Thames. I wondered which would happen first, our
arrival at London Bridge or his demise.

How different from the last time I journeyed up the
river. Then I had been in the King's Royal Barge with the choicest food and
wine, minstrels to play soft melodies and that fool Will Sommers to entertain
the King and weary me with his drivel. But it had been me who was the fool, I
thought bitterly. My intervention to save an innocent man's life had ruined
mine.

I put my hand into the water and pulled it out again,
just narrowly missing the latest glob of phlegm from the boatman. I cast him a
venomous look which he mistook for a pleasant one, grinning to reveal a row of
teeth which looked like moss-encrusted tombstones. I closed my eyes to hide the
sight of them.

I wondered what I could do now. How I could possibly
make my way in London and in life.

Did I regret interceding on the menagerie keeper's
behalf, I wondered.

I regret losing my position at the court. I miss the
fine clothes, the respect from the courtiers, the ease of life. I don't miss being
on public show, though, I don't regret having to always think about the
impression I might be making. I don't regret the constant sexual pleasuring I
had to give the King. He gorged on me every bit as much as he gorged on his
food. And now, like a bone from a capon, I've been cast aside.

So what would I do now? The kindness of the two guards
meant I'd been able to collect the little money I had, my recorder, poetry
book, a little trinket given to me by my mother and the locket from the King. I
pushed open the locket and glanced at where the portrait of the King had lain
before it had been prised out, presumably on his order. How could he do such a
thing? How could he be so cruel after what we had shared together? How could he
stoop so low?

Yet I knew that the lord of all he surveyed was a man
who could stoop lower than most. No glory was too high for him to reach for and
no base act too squalid should it suit his purpose. He contained within his one
mountainous frame all that was noble in a man and all that was vile. A cold
chill washed over me at memory of him.

'It's a lovely morning to be out on the river,' said
the waterman. He gave me a look which was both lewd and kindly. No doubt he'd
be happy to have me as either daughter or bedmate. I studied his face. He
looked careworn and beaten down and yet, as he glanced around, there was still
a shred of life about him. Not defeated altogether. Not completely.

'It is lovely,' I said and his face lit up with
pleasure.

I could do that with men, I realised. With a word, or
a glance or a touch, I could make their hearts beat stronger and their lives
feel better.

He began to whistle, tunelessly and flat. But it was,
at least, preferable to his coughing.

I thought back to the King. He has less nobility than
even this poor old man. And yet, despite all this, and despite my distaste for
his sexual demands, I could not deny that I missed him.

I smiled a little at this revelation. What on earth
could it be that I missed? And then I knew. It was not the life of ease and pleasure.
It was not the grandeur, though there was plenty of that. It was because of two
things. One was that Henry Tudor surged with boisterous life. And the other was
that on occasion he showed he cared for me.

I have had little of caring in my life.

'What you going to London for, miss? said the
waterman. 'If I may be so bold to ask? It's early for a young lady to be out
and about.'

I looked over his shoulder at the sun which was even
now only a little way above the horizon. Despite it being the height of summer
the mists of night still hung about the river here and there.

'I am leaving the palace,' I said. 'I go to live in London.'

The old man nodded. 'Been sacked,' he said. 'Dismissed
from service?' His eyes seemed to get much smaller. 'Got with child, miss?'

'That is no concern of yours,' I snapped.

He nodded slowly, as if my response had confirmed his
suspicions. He could not help but glance at my stomach.

'I am not with child,' I said in a firm tone.

'But you have been dismissed,' he said.

'Yes,' I cried, vexed at his nosiness. 'But what
business is it of yours?' My tone was harsh and a look of fright came to his
eyes.

'None, miss,' he said. 'Not my business at all.' He
mumbled to himself a moment and stared at his feet.

I sat thus for a quarter of an hour, plunged in
seething silence.

At last I relented, feeling sorry for the look of fear
my words had engendered in the old man.

'It was fair enough for you to ask, I suppose,' I
said.

'It were only conversation, miss,' he said, looking up
hopefully.

'I know. I understand.'

'And,' the waterman began. He paused as if uncertain
how to proceed.

'Yes?' I said.

'And I was wondering how you'd make your way in life
now you're dismissed. And where you might go to live. Do you have family in London, miss, or friends? It's a lively place. Might be risky for a young lady like you.'

'Risky? What do you mean?'

He sighed and looked at the river in silence. I
thought he might never speak again. Finally he gave an even bigger sigh and
turned to look at me.

'Men,' he said. 'Men will look at you and feel
lustful. With good luck a fine young gentleman will seek you for his wife. With
bad luck, villains will abuse you and worse.'

'How worse?' I said, my chin jutting forward as if I
were squaring up to Wicks or Bray.

'You'd fetch a high price for your charms, miss, a
very high price. In the stews and brothels of Southwark. Or even worse, you
could be shipped off to foreign parts. Those infidels, the French and Turks,
they'll pay big for someone like you. For their harems.'

I laughed at his words. 'Thank you for your warning,
kind sir. But I think I can take care of myself.'

He gave me a deep look and shook his head. 'You think
you can, miss. But it strikes me that you don't know London. And you don't know
how low folk can stoop.'

'I don't know London,' I said. 'But I know how low men
can stoop.'

'You mean the King?' he asked.

I looked at him with astonishment. 'How on earth did
you know?'

'We watermen know everything, miss. We're the ears and
eyes of the Palace. When people sit themselves in our boats, high up people,
they don't notice we're here and they talk their hearts out in front of us.
I've heard all sorts from all sorts of people. Who's bedding who, secrets of
state and plans for mischief and treachery. All sorts of stuff. And we've got
eyes, miss, good eyes.' He chuckled to himself. 'Especially for such lovely
girls as you.'

I smiled despite myself. 'Thank you, kindly,' I said,
giving a courtly bob of my head.

He laughed aloud at my jest. The more I looked at him
the less grotesque he seemed.

'My name is Alice Petherton,' I said.

'Walter Scrump, miss. Son of Jacob.'

I stared at him and felt the smile growing on my face
as I did so.

'You know about me,' I said. 'But I know nothing about
you other than that you have eyes and ears and a wheezing chest. Tell me about
yourself.'

'Nothing to tell, miss. I'm a waterman.'

I leaned forward in the boat, hugging my knees.

'But there must be lots to tell. How old you are,
where you live, your friends and family.'

He shook his head. 'Don't know how old I am, miss,
though my old mum told me I was born the year the old King Henry killed Richard
Crookback. Used to call me her Tudor prince, when I were a boy. As a jest you
understand, meaning no disrespect.'

I nodded and did a quick calculation in my head. He
must be in his early fifties but he looked twenty years older.

'And where do you live, Mr Scrump? And what about your
family.'

He rubbed his hand across his nostrils, squinted at
what had settled on his fingers and furtively rinsed them in the river.

'I lives in Offal Pudding Lane, miss. Close to the
river. Can get from my door to my boat as fast as a tick come the morning. Them
who gets to their boats first gets the most work you see.'

I nodded. 'And your family?'

He gave a lop-sided grin. 'I have a wife. She's called
Margery. Margery Scrump. She can be a bit of a rough-house when she's minded,
miss. The neighbours will tell you that. But only to protect her own. That and
when I've taken too much ale in the Traitor's Head. Then she's handy with her
tongue.' He chuckled at the thought.

'And what about children?'

'Fourteen of 'em, miss. Three still living. There's
Walter, he was the fourth to bear that name, though we call him Art, Katie and
Jane. Good girls, with kids of their own. Art, though, he's a rascal. A litter
of kiddies all across London and not one of 'em knows who their father is.'

'He must be a very tired man,' I said. 'What is his
work?'

'Waterman, miss,' he said as if astonished by my
question. 'We Scrumps's say we've got Thames water in our veins instead of
blood.'

I laughed aloud and touched his hand. 'You've cheered
me, Walter Scrump,' I said. 'I stepped into this boat as melancholy as a winter
evening but now I am cheered.'

He pursed his lips. 'You won't be when I get you to London Bridge,' he said. 'Where you going to stay?'

I shrugged. 'I've got a little money. I'll find some
lodgings somewhere.'

'Won't your family help?'

I shook my head. 'I've got no family. My mother died
when I was seven years old. I was brought up by my Grandmother but she died
last year. I've lived at court for the past few years. Hampton Court is the only home I've got.'

'Well you ain't got it no more.'

I frowned at his bluntness but he did not notice. He
began to chew on his tongue, blowing out little breaths all the while, and
mumbling to himself periodically. Deep in thought I assumed. Either that or
chomping on a bit of breakfast still lodged in his teeth.

I turned my attention to the river. The sun had
extinguished the last of the mists and was sparkling on the water. It was still
early so there was less traffic than normal but a score of little boats
scurried hither and tither, up river, down river and slanting across from bank
to bank. These people were making their way in the world, I thought, and
without the advantages that I have. I could read and write, I could dance and
sing, I could even write poetry. Then a terrible thought came to me. As Walter
had said, I was beautiful. I could find a wealthy husband. Or failing that,
earn my money on my back.

'We've got a small room,' Walter's voice broke into my
thoughts. 'It's very small and a bit grubby. But it could suit you well, miss.'

I stared at him, open-mouthed. 'That's so kind of you,
Mr Scrump.' I could not believe a stranger would be so kind.

A look of alarm crossed his face. 'You'd have to pay,
miss. Margery ain't an almshouse.'