Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (42 page)

Katherine, up early, is walking with her
brother. The falconer and his lad follow several yards behind, politely out of earshot,
birds leashed to their arms. No one is about the palace, save the bake-house workers who
clank and sing, preparing the day’s bread, stacking the loaves in the racks
outside. The scent of it is too much to resist and Will breaks off the end of a fresh
warm stick that they munch on as they walk. It is a simple pleasure, eating fresh bread,
out of doors, and such satisfactions are few and far between for Katherine, whose every
moment is taken up with the artifice of being Queen. They can hear the rustle and
scuffle of creatures going about their business under cover of the fog. The birds flap
and strain at their trusses, keen to fly out, but the mist is too dense to send them.
Will is in good spirits, gleefully recounting how Gardiner has fallen from favour.

‘The old goat refused to gift the King
a tract of land,’ he says, ‘and now he’s denied admittance and waits
about outside in the halls day after day, hoping to catch the King’s
eye.’

‘I can’t say I’m not happy
for that.’

‘And, Kit, you should see
him … he waits for privy councillors to leave and tags along with them, to
walk out through the watching chamber, so as to give the impression out there that
nothing has changed.’

‘I would have thought he could manage
a little more dignity …’ She pauses. ‘But I can’t muster any
sympathy. He wished me ill, Bishop Gardiner.’

‘Lord Denny and our own
brother-in-law, Will Herbert,’ he goes on, ‘are tipped for the top posts in
the privy chamber. Out with the old …’ Will slaps his thigh with a laugh.

‘I had heard that. Sister Anne mentioned
her husband was to be given a new position.’

‘Kit,’ says Will, in that
lowered tone that means he is about to say something that could compromise them
both.

She knows her brother well – too well, she
sometimes thinks. ‘Yes, Will, what schemes now?’

‘No schemes, sister.’ He
hesitates and throws a sideways smile at her, glancing behind to be sure that the
falconer is too far away to hear what he is about to say. ‘It is just that the
King is … well, how to say it … he is not a young
man …’

‘Stop, Will. You know it is treason to
talk of such things.’ She says it, but she cannot deny that she has often thought
of the King’s demise and her own freedom.

‘Who is there to hear? Only the
squirrels and the deer.’

‘And the falconers.’ She
suddenly feels sick of it all, tired of having always to take care not to be overheard,
of never being able to simply say what she is thinking. ‘I shall say this but it
is never to be mentioned again. Understood?’ Her tone has become impatient.
‘When Henry went to France he made a new will and in it I was to be Regent,
whatever occurred. And now he has given the Prince into my care. Is that enough to
satisfy your ambition, brother?’

‘Kit, is that true? I knew of the
Prince, but the will …’ He has jumped in front of her and turned to walk
backwards, facing her, unable to quash his grin.

She
is not smiling. She is
teetering on the edge of anger and can’t stop herself from snapping,
‘It’s not enough that your sister should whore herself to raise you up, but
you would be the most powerful man in the land, would you? Do you not understand the
danger I have been in? Do you not understand how little I care for power and how much I
care for my life?’

Will is chastened and stumbles over a clumsy
apology, waxing on about the respect he has for her as not only his Queen but his elder
sister, and how he would lay down his life for hers, which she roundly doubts. But the
whole stuttering ream of it lightens her mood. He
is
her brother, after
all.

‘It is hard, is it not, for your pride
to shrink sufficiently that you can be sorry?’ she laughs.

They walk some more, with Will talking
lightly of privy chamber gossip. The mist is lifting and soon the hawks will be able to
fly. They stop on a ridge with the rolling hills of Surrey before them, and the
falconer’s lad helps Katherine strap on her leather glove so she can take her
bird. She unhoods it, feeling how it trembles with anticipation of the kill; then she
loosens its ties, flinging it out, watching the great wings spread as it skims and
swoops into the distance, seeking out its prey, then, spotting movement, hangs a moment
before making its dive.

‘The King has a mind to marry off Mary
Howard, had you heard of it?’ chats Will.

‘The Duchess of Richmond? I had
not,’ she replies. ‘Which is surprising given how my ladies can sniff out a
marriage proposal in the next county.’

The falcon rises empty-beaked and wheels
around, preparing to dive again.

‘Norfolk is not happy about
it.’

‘Why is that? I’d have thought
he’d want to see his daughter wed again. She’s been a widow for so long now
and has barely two pennies to rub together. Marriage would take her off his
hands.’

‘Ah, but the suitor is Thomas
Seymour.’

Katherine’s fragile world begins to
splinter. The equilibrium
she thought she’d found is nothing
more than a sham; she fears she is lost again. Will talks on, and on, about the endless
feuding between the Seymours and the Howards, but Katherine cannot hear him for the
torrent of blood rushing through her ears.

‘She turned him down once, years ago,
but things are different now … She could do a good deal worse than Tom.
He’s a hero … attacked by pirates … rowed himself to
safety … the comeliest man at court …’

The world is whirling about her and she
holds out a hand to the trunk of a tree to steady herself.

‘Kit,’ says Will, seeing the
colour drain from his sister’s face. ‘Kit, what ails you?’

‘I am just a little dizzy,’ she
says.

She has forgotten the bird, which plunges
silently towards her, dropping a small rabbit with a thud at her feet, making her start.
Finding her bearings, she puts out an arm and the hawk takes its cue, settling on to
her, seeming so much heavier now. She is suddenly exhausted and drops to her haunches,
leaning back into the tree.

‘What is it, Kit?’ Will rushes
towards her. ‘What’s wrong?’ He squats down, placing a hand to her
forehead.

‘It’s nothing, I’m
just …’ She hesitates, not really knowing what to say. ‘I’m just
feeling a little weak.’

‘You’re with child?’
whispers Will, a barely suppressed eagerness on his face, his mismatched eyes dancing,
betraying the inner machinations of his thoughts.

She can see him calculating how much further
up the pecking order
that
would put him. ‘For pity’s sake,
Will … I am not.’

‘Come, Kit, I shall take you back. You
are in no fit state for hawking.’

He moves to take her falcon, but the bird is
spooked by something and flails about, catching Will’s cheek with its talons,
leaving a trio of blooded stripes. The falconer and his boy rush forward, apologizing,
grovelling, as if it had been their fault.

‘Take them,’ says Will.
‘That one is still in the mood for killing and I must return the Queen to the
palace.’

They walk back in silence. Will hooks an arm
through hers, and with his other hand he presses a handkerchief up to his bleeding
cheek. Katherine’s thoughts are spiralling and she wonders how she will fare if
Thomas is back and paraded there beneath her nose.

She had thought it all – the longing, the
boiling desire – consigned to the past, buried. After all, it has been more than three
years since he took his leave. But it is not over, and the notion of him marrying knots
itself up inside her, her inner world thrown so far off kilter that she wonders how she
will go about her business without visibly listing.

The palace gardens are bustling with people
passing busily through into the courtyard. Pages rush through the cloisters and maids
gad to and fro; a lad passes with a box of cabbages on his shoulder and a couple of
women, gabbing to each other, carry between them a basket of silvery fish. Everyone has
some kind of duty to perform before the first serving of dinner in the hall. As they
notice that the Queen is among them they stop and drop to their knees, though she waves
to them to carry on with their business and not mind her. But none notice that she is
moving with difficulty through a world that is tipped on its side, or see that she fears
falling off its edge.

‘Thomas Seymour,’ says Katherine
quietly without looking her brother in the eye, ‘is he back at court then?’
The
name makes her tongue smart, as if it were too hot and has burned
her.

‘Kit,’ he replies, grabbing her
shoulders, offering up that impudent grin of his that most girls find so irresistible.
‘You are not still sweet on my friend Seymour, are you?’

She draws herself together, gathering in her
disparate fragments. ‘No, brother, I am not.’ She brings his ear to her
mouth, spitting in an angry whisper, ‘And in case you’d forgotten, I am wed
to the King of England.’

‘Yes yes, sis,’ he says, pulling
away. ‘And your answer is over there.’ He waves his arm to the far corner of
the court.

Not understanding what he means, Katherine
follows the movement with her eyes. There is Thomas, dismounting from his horse,
oblivious to them watching him. A jewel in his cap is caught in a shaft of sunlight,
glittering like a fallen star, and Katherine’s heart takes a leap.

‘Seymour!’ cries Will to his
pal.

Without a word, Katherine slips up the back
steps and away before she is seen.

Huicke has been traipsing the damp
Southwark streets in the drizzle for some time now, searching for Udall. When he
disappears like this he can usually be found in one of the boy stews this side of the
river. His insatiable appetite for the young renters who ply their trade around these
parts makes Huicke wonder if he will succumb to the pox. God knows where the whore lads
have been. But that’s all part of it for Udall, or so he says – the danger. Huicke
well knows about
Udall’s proclivity for beating young boys and
there are plenty here who would suffer a caning in return for a few pennies
and
walk away with a smile on their grubby faces.

What worries Huicke more is that Udall will
find himself on the wrong end of someone’s blade – a fancy fellow such as he,
slumming it in the stews for days on end. He half expects to turn the corner and find
his lover’s corpse, stripped of its finery and kicked into the gutter. As the
light fades, the alleys become more menacing and Huicke feels a buzz of apprehension in
his belly. The mizzle turns to rain and he skirts the muck-filled puddles in his
deerskin shoes, wishing he’d worn something more robust, unable to shake off his
annoyance at being led here to pick his way through the maze of heaved-together houses
to search for his lover. But Udall is like that; he knows Huicke will follow in his
wake, and Huicke is angry with himself for being so predictable.

So he wanders the darkening alleys, fuming
and itching; his skin doesn’t like the damp weather. He presses a bunch of
rosemary tightly to his nose against the reek, poking his head around doorways and
looking into windows, following the odd gust of raucous laughter, or a waft of music
seeping from the mean casements. A beggar stands on the corner – a young woman in a torn
dress, and so covered in dirt she might be a Moor. Her filthy hands are cupped and
Huicke considers tossing her a coin, but he knows only too well that if you stop and
take your purse out around these parts, it will be conjured away in an instant. He also
knows that there are gangs of thieves who are in the habit of using sorry girls like
this as a decoy for their nefarious ends; so he strides on past, still furious with
Udall for leading him to this godforsaken place.

When he has rounded the corner he hears a
shout. He
turns and sees the beggar girl approaching apace. He breaks
into a run, speeding down an alley towards the river, splashing into a puddle, drenching
his hose and cursing under his breath. He can hear her footsteps and the swish of her
skirts close behind him. He speeds up, panting with the effort.

‘Dr Huicke,’ the creature calls.
‘Please stop!’

A shiver runs through him. How in
God’s name does she know what he is called? What kind of dirty ruse has he found
himself the victim of? Her accomplices must be close by. If he can only get himself to
the water where his boat is waiting.

‘Dr Huicke …’

She has quite a pair of legs on her for a
girl and is closing in on him at speed. He tries to pick up his pace; a stitch stabs at
his side, so he turns a corner, seeking a niche in which to hide, but he is confronted
by a solid wall, far too high to climb. Heart hammering, he turns, expecting to discover
a gang of thugs close at her tail. But the girl stands alone before him.

He leaps forward, grabbing her arms,
twisting one of them behind her back and clasping her firmly about the waist. Close up,
her rancid stink makes him gag.

‘I beg of you, loose me,’ she
cries, kicking out like a wild colt.

‘Where are the others?’ he
growls, tightening his grip.

‘There are no others, Dr
Huicke.’

‘How do you know my name?’ He
fears himself caught in an elaborate trap, fears that it might be he, not Udall, who
ends up on the wrong end of a blade this night.

‘But do you not recognize me, Dr
Huicke? It is I, Dorothy Fownten, who serves the Queen.’

He looks at her dress, noticing, even in the
dimming light,
that beneath the dirt it is cut from good wool. She is
struggling to unloose his clasp on her wrist, plucking at his fingers with her free
hand. It is then that he sees something familiar in the deep set of her eyes, the swell
of her mouth. Releasing his hold a little, he allows her to turn and face him.